


Major Arcana Series

by FrancescasWords



Category: Original Work, Tarot (Divination Cards)
Genre: Ancient History, Angel/Demon Relationship, Best Friends, Cake, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Depression, Emotional, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Ghosts, Good versus Evil, Grief/Mourning, Growth, Ice Cream, Ice Cream Parlors, Independence, Inspired by the Raven Cycle, LGBTQ Themes, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Marriage, My Chemical Romance References, No Lesbians Die, Percy Jackson References, Personal Growth, Revenge, Romance, Self Confidence, Supernatural Elements, Tarot, Tea, Time Travel, Travel, Understanding, Witches, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 39,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescasWords/pseuds/FrancescasWords
Summary: A series of flash fiction stories, all inspired by cards from the tarot deck's major arcana, all featuring magic and/or really odd people. Epic emotional journeys, time travel and cake ahead. Sometimes in the same story.
Kudos: 7





	1. Inheritance Tax (The Hanged Man)

Stephen Defoe was not usually one for introspection, but it struck him that he was acutely aware of every ache in his body. Squashed between his backpack and a fellow tourist, Stephen sat on a bus currently between Siam Reap and Phnom Penh. Until he came to Cambodia, he thought Phnom Penh was a type of pasta. The bus was old; the sun was unforgiving; backpacking is uncomfortable. Both his feet were asleep. He needed the loo. Something hard was sticking out of his rucksack, kneading a groove in the skin above his hip.

Stephen had just left Angkor Wat, so was more inclined to practice meditation than he might have been normally. A sunrise viewing of the temples had left him strangely contemplative, despite hordes of tourists click-click-clicking on the camera phones, and despite the near-death experiences of clambering enormous steps and wandering ancient ruins and realising that shit that’s a fucking big spider.

So he was quite conscious of how uncomfortable he was.

At a rest stop with mercifully working toilets and mercifully chilled soft drinks, he struck up a friendly conversation with an Australian couple. Or rather, they struck up a conversation with him. ‘Where are you from?’ one half of the couple asked. He looked like a TV presenter, although Stephen couldn’t remember which one.

‘Somerset,’ Stephen replied. ‘Go to the bottom-left of England and then go up a bit.’

‘Near Brighton!’ TV Presenter nodded enthusiastically. ‘We’ve always wanted to go.’ Taking in the matching tattoos both men sported on their forearms—miniature pride flags plus the word ‘always’ in an offensively flowery typeface— Stephen resisted the urge to turn away. The newly mindful part of Stephen knew that meeting an LGBT Australian couple on a bus in Cambodia was statistically likely, given the number of LGBT people in the world and the number of tourists visiting Cambodia. The part of Stephen whose wife had recently left him for a marketing manager named Daisy viewed all pride flags as a personal jab from the universe’s diversity department.

The other husband (honestly, even linguistics had it in for him), who looked like the sort of bloke you saw on a TV segment about gun crime, nodded enthusiastically. ‘Brighton! Yes! The San Francisco of England.’

‘Is it?’ Stephen asked politely. He sipped his Sprite. Mindful of his desire to be more mindful, he tried to think kinder thoughts about the husband. Not gang member. What was the word? Body builder. That was it.

‘What brings you to Cambodia?’ TV Presenter asked.

‘It’s a funny story, actually,’ Stephen said ruefully. ‘My mother died recently and stipulated in her will that I can’t inherit her estate until I can prove I’ve travelled to at least one hundred UNESCO World Heritage sites. She, um, she thought I was too comfortable, and was likely to spend her money on another buy-to-let flat revamp or a trip to Vegas…’ As this was the fourth time Stephen had told the story, the sting of recounting it had lessened a little. Now it felt like reading a journal entry from his teenage years, or like watching somebody vomit.

Whatever TV Presenter had been expecting, this wasn’t it. He was quiet for a full ten seconds.

‘That’s far out! Did none of the family want to come with you?’

‘Well, not really, as my wife left me around the same time for one of her colleagues.’

He didn’t quite know how it happened, but by the time the bus had reached Phnom Penh, Stephen had explained the inner workings of his marriage to the Australians and described in great detail the way his wife had chosen to break the news of her infidelity. It involved a dinner in Stephen’s favourite Greek restaurant, thus ruining both Greece and public dining indefinitely.

‘So now I’m going to the Killing Fields,’ Stephen concluded, ‘before I fly to to Hoi An in Vietnam. I might stop off in Laos before I go back to Europe. I’ve heard the Plain of Jars is quite nice to look at.’

‘Intense,’ Body Builder reflected. ‘Well, Stephen, if you’re ever in Brisbane, hit us up!’

Six months later, Stephen sat on a train going from Paris to London St Pancras. His backpack was battered, but there was space for it in the overhead compartment. No one had booked the seat next to him. He was acutely aware of how moderately comfortable his journey would be.

‘Hey — it’s the monk!’

‘Excuse me? Stephen blinked up. In front of him stood the TV presenter and the body builder, beaming.

‘Oh, hello.’

‘It is you!’ TV Presenter shook his hand. ‘How are you? Where have you just been—Pompeii? Chernobyl? Auschwitz?’

‘Oh yes, I have. It is quite something. Although Chernobyl isn’t actually—wait, why did you call me the monk?’

‘Mate, we’ve been telling everyone about this guy wandering the planet so he can inherit his mum’s fortune. Somewhere along the road we started calling you the wandering monk. Or Odin. Because he used to wonder, you know…’ Body Builder gestured proudly to a tattoo of the World Tree wrapped around his left bicep.

‘You look… different.’ TV Presenter noted as the train began to move.

Stephen smiled wryly. ‘That’ll be the stomach bug I picked up in Delhi. I couldn’t leave my dorm for three days and I’ve never really got my appetite back.’ He didn’t mention the hornet sting just outside Tokyo, which left him hospitalised. He didn’t mention the time in Barcelona when a drunk English tourist mistook Stephen’s wiping his glasses for an offensive gesture and removed two teeth with a tidy punch. He didn’t mention that a couple of months into his sabbatical, his partners in the dental firm he’d founded in 2006 forced him out in what could really only be interpreted as a coup d’état.

‘So have you got your money yet?’ Body Builder asked.

‘Oh, yes, I reached one hundred Heritage sites in a couple of months. But I’ve decided to keep travelling and spend my mother’s money on a charity providing children with cultural exchange opportunities. Pen pals, language programmes, that sort of thing.’

The Australians looked suitably touched. ‘Good for you, mate. Looks like your old mum was onto something.’ Body Builder clapped Stephen on the shoulder. ‘Hey, did you ever sort things out with your wife?’

‘We’ve spoken,’ Stephen admitted. ‘They’ve invited me to their wedding next year.’

‘Will you go?’

‘Well, yes, actually. We talked things over in Prague, of all places. They did a long weekend there and said they owed me dinner.’

‘Good for you! It’s not like you’ll ever be friends, but it’s beneficial to the soul to clear the air.’ Stephen wondered if Body Builder had read that in a book, then decided he didn’t care.

‘Well, we might not be friend friends, but I’ve sort of agreed to walk Patricia down the aisle. By the way, what are your names?’


	2. Just Desserts (Justice)

If asked, tourists leaving the Sweet Memories Family Run Pâtisserie and Ice Cream Parlour in Carnaby Street would usually describe their experience as magical. Sometimes they would use compound phrases like absolutely fabulous. Occasionally they would enumerate on past experiences or make comparisons: it reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen. Or I rather feel this place belongs in a Hans Christen Anderson. Or It was like that shop in that book you used to have! But the word used most was magical. The shop was comfortably warm during winter, scented with cinnamon, apple and cloves. During summer months, staff could conjure a cool breeze out of nowhere, wafting coconut, orange and rose-tinted air through the kitchen and over waiting customers. Regardless of the temperature outside, the staff—a combination of the Sweet Memories immediate family and several cousins from their village in Italy—were rarely seen flushed with the heat of the ovens or flustered by an early-afternoon rush.

As befitting its reputation as the best pâtisserie and ice cream parlour outside London, offerings from Sweet Memories were seasonal and fleeting. Toffee apple ice cream and steaming, sticky honey-and-orange buns for bonfire night; strawberry sorbet and sharp lime pavlova at midsummer. A large part of Sweet Memories’ appeal was that you had to visit at a certain time to obtain a certain flavour, or risk an entire year of your friends saying, ‘I got us this gorgeous spiced apple cake in Sainsbury’s the other day—almost like the ones from Sweet Memories, but not as fluffy—oh, but you won’t notice.’

Melody Sinclair’s seventh birthday was the first indication that Sweet Memories might be magical in more ways than one. The bakery usually only offered magazine-worthy wedding cakes alongside its everyday confectionery, but Mrs Sinclair persuaded staff to branch out. Melody was undergoing treatment for leukemia and odds of her reaching her seventh birthday had at one point seemed rather remote. Her birthday cake was, therefore, undertaken by all parties with more than the usual care. An avid reader, Melody had requested a cake based on Roald Dahl’s Matilda. Her birthday present was tickets to see the West End musical, so Melody’s parents were quite specific about design. In Sweet Memories, Maria Cavallo sketched a few ideas on baking paper and rang a cousin in Glasgow about providing his award-winning chocolate fondue.

Eight hours, several dozen eggs and two large glasses of Scotch later, Maria Cavallo had outdone herself.

Her creation was formed, quite literally, of Melody’s favourite things. The cake itself: a seven-layer, raspberry-flavoured, rainbow Victoria Sandwich. At its centre, Maria’s cousin’s chocolate fondue, which was once described by The Times as ‘life-affirming’. Iced with raspberry buttercream and shaped like a large open book, the cake’s pages read ‘Happy 7th Birthday Melody!’ in elegant white piping.

It was, as most brightly coloured children’s birthday cakes are, a roaring success. It also tasted like a summer sunset.

‘Make a wish when you blow the candles out,’ Melody’s mother murmured as she kept hordes of small children a safe distance from the open flames. Death by birthday cake, she reflected, would be a note-worthy but depressing way to go. Melody’s father steadied his ancient video camera, glad that the sound of people cheering could mask his involuntary, although quite welcome, spate of weeping.

A few hours later, after the guests had gone home, a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat knocked on the front door. ‘I’m terribly sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Is Melody still up?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Mrs Sinclair. ‘Yes, she’s still up. You’re just in time for a bedtime story. Come on in.’

Buoyed by Mrs Sinclair’s delighted feedback and substantial tip, Sweet Memories added birthday cakes to their product list. Any shape, any height, any flavour, unless it’s adult-themed in which case please speak to Maria personally, advertised the shop window. Just a few weeks later, residents noticed oddities that rather seemed to correspond with Maria selling a birthday cake. Mrs Dean in York Boulevard won five thousand pounds on the lottery. Mr Ahmed in Canterbury Street lost fifty pounds on a diet of homecooked food and long walks. Neither of these things were odd, except that, to quote them both, Mrs Dean’s husband had recently ‘pissed off with the entire family’s life savings and that bloke from the travel agent,’ and Mr Ahmed had spent forty years ‘lacking the inclination to cook more than cereal or walk more further than to the nearest car.’

Coincidence insisted sceptics at the queue at the post office, the queue at the bank and the queue at the traffic lights on Cardiff Avenue. Worthy of a wry smile at the most.

Coincidence, agreed believers, until you remembered that Destiny Parrish’s mum bought her eleventh birthday cake from Sweet Memories and her ailing pet Labrador-Chihuahua mix recovered from her cancer without requiring treatment. Matthew Rhodes’ ninth birthday cake was followed by his father’s surprising early release from his detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Ah, the sceptics would admit. I see where you’re going.

Unfortunately, so did Ellen Smith.

Ellen—Ellie to her sisters, Nel to her husband, that fabulous lady who works in the vets to everybody else—insisted on throwing her husband Michael an enormous fortieth birthday party on Midsummer’s Eve. This was a shock to most, as on Michael’s thirty-ninth birthday, Ellen had surprised him with a visit to his London flat and found him in an interesting state of undress with her niece.

Even more surprisingly, Ellen’s niece was invited to the party.

She did not turn up.

Most of the town did, though. Ellen was responsible for vaccination reminders and half price worming tablets and a great many bouquets of flowers, delivered to the veterinary practice after the demise of a beloved pet. She was also a fabulous host, providing litres of sangria and a live swing band. Sweet Memories had done most of the catering: miniature puff pastries, tiny fudge brownies, creamy vanilla ice cream cones, all washed down with booze and the knowledge that the first part of the buffet contained a salad.

It was sunset by the time Michael’s birthday cake was brought out. A red velvet sponge topped with whipped cream, strawberries and one of those sparklers that looks like the exhaust from a jet engine, it tasted like a day at Wimbledon.

Two days later, on Monday morning, the multinational corporation Michael had worked for since leaving university announced that it was moving its headquarters from London to Frankfurt. Michael was not invited to join the Frankfurt team. In fact, he had six weeks to find employment elsewhere.

On Wednesday morning, Ellen served Michael divorce papers next to his coffee. It appeared that she owned the house, their car and the rather valuable oil painting they once won in a raffle. Mysteriously, Ellen’s assets seemed to be tied up in offshore accounts, most with rather more digits on the balance statements than Michael had realised. Michael’s assets consisted entirely of an ISA, a moped purchased during an early midlife crisis and the London flat… which had rising damp.

On Saturday morning, Ellen’s niece arrived at the front door. She proceeded to inform Michael that she was pregnant; it was his; she wanted it. So could he please put some of that money he liked spending on nights out toward their child, who she felt deserved a better home than her rodent-infested flatshare.

How had Ellen known? She couldn’t have known, insisted friends and neighbours, although she was smart enough to guess.

She must have known, argued others. How else could she have come out with a million-pound divorce package and the oil painting, while he got a long stint at the local recruitment office and the baby he’d asked Ellen not to have?

If Maria Cavallo and the staff at Sweet Memories knew, they weren’t saying. They did, however, take a large order for an unusual set of cakes for Ellen Smith: seven custom-shaped sponge cakes, chocolate-orange flavoured, iced in pink buttercream. They were for a divorce-confirmation party, to which the whole town was invited to come and celebrate her FREEDOM.


	3. Unexpected Treasures (The Star)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: contains themes of depression and suicidal feelings. Please consume responsibly.  
> -  
> Dedicated to anyone who could use a little bit of starlight.

It wasn’t hope he was looking for when he stepped into Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities, it was oblivion. He could have taken a more conventional route, but convention was one of the reasons he felt so low, so if he was doing this, he was doing it precisely how he had wanted his life to be: full of magic. He didn’t bother browsing the cramped shelves or looking into delicate yellow-lit glass cabinets; once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he headed straight for the girl behind the counter.

‘How can I help?’

She looked far too young to be at work. Half-hidden behind a foot of mousy hair, with dark eyes sunk into her skull, she suited Bezzina’s many corners and unusual window display, which consisted of slowly burning set of wooden table and chairs.

‘Something to send me to sleep, please.’

‘For how long?’

He shrugged. Forever. Until the end of the year. For just a little while, just a little break, please—

She looked at him. Long, sallow fingers picked at her sleeve; she was wearing burgundy dungarees and a mustard-coloured top, a combination that he felt shouldn’t have worked, but did. Go to the pharmacy. Go to that guy on the corner by the high street. Go to a hardware store for some rope and a footstall.

‘We have this,’ she said after a moment or two. She leaned over the counter and picked up a trinket on a stand next to the till. ‘These are charms.’

‘Keyring charms?’ It was identical to the little metal key charms you found in Christmas crackers or children’s party bags. The one she was holding was shaped like an emoji, albeit one designed with artistic skill.

‘Also actual charms. This one is for a calm mind, so pop it on your keys and you’ll find you sleep at night far better.’ The little illustrated face was very relaxed.

‘That’s… Not quite what I’m looking for.’

‘Something stronger?’ She walked the shop, pulling items from shelves and racks. The room felt cramped, not because it was small but because most of the space was taken up by cabinets and ottomans and chairs, themselves full of objects. It was actually very organised, he realised—white goods arranged on a Formica table, books alphabetised on shelves, soft toys perched on an armchair, a rail of clothes next to a jewellery cabinet. The table and chairs were still burning, crackling merrily, but didn’t appear to be disintegrating. He wondered who would buy it. He wished he’d visited before, when he was well enough to appreciate every item. Bezzina’s had always seemed a shop for teenaged goths, occultists and the pitifully desperate, which now struck him as pitifully ironic.

‘This eye mask gives the wearer sweet dreams. You can’t feel these headphones, so they’re great for listening to podcasts or the radio in bed if you don’t have a stereo. They’re also noise cancelling. These pyjamas will literally sing you to sleep, although I’m told they can be a bit heavy on the R&B. And—where is it? Bear with me—ah.’ She wriggled a glass case open using an ancient, tiny key on her lanyard. She was at a cabinet labelled ‘potions, lotions and elixirs.’ Several bottles contained what looked a lot like blood. Some were labelled in Latin. A couple were repurposed Body Shop containers.

‘You have something in there to send to sleep?’ He was definitely visiting several pharmacies and probably an off-licence. Still, he respected himself for trying.

She returned to the counter holding a tiny glass vial, about the size of her thumb. It glowed with a cold, silvery light.

‘This is liquid starlight.’

‘It will make me sleep?’

‘Not by itself. But before you do the eye mask and the headphones, before you slip away, drink the starlight. It will warm you from inside, clear away the cobwebs and untangle some of what’s inside your head.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘We get a few of these in a year from a supplier in Virginia. I tried some a while ago when I was under the weather. Pepped me right up.’

‘So I should take this… Before I do anything else?’

‘Well, before you put the eye mask on, certainly. We also recommend you don’t mix it with any depressants or stimulants, even if they’re over the counter. Under no circumstances go near anything that could be considered a narcotic. Our supplier was quite specific—apparently early tests indicated that starlight is not something you can really mix with other substances.’

He thought about it. Weren’t depressants and narcotics the same thing? Learning which pharmaceutical products he could mix with magical substances to hasten oblivion without first vomiting up his intestines was another thing he’d failed at.

‘How much?’

‘Starlight’s forty-five. Charms are five. Pyjamas are thirty, headphones are thirty, eye mask is twenty.’ He wasn’t going to be spending his salary on anything else, so what the hell.

‘I’ll take them all except the charm. Wait, not the pyjamas.’

‘You can have them for eighty, sir, if you take one of charms.’ Was she backwards haggling? Did she consider him a random charity case? No wonder the shop looked like it was falling down.

‘Well… all right.’

She smiled and entered everything into a heavy old till and a very old-fashioned ledger. Who still used a paper ledger?

‘Remember,’ she said she wrote out a receipt in neat, spidery handwriting, ‘you do the starlight first. Before anything else. Understand?’

‘Yes, I understand.’

The assistant handed him a sturdy paper bag and his receipt. ‘You have thirty days to return anything, unused, with the receipt and in the correct packaging, as long as it isn’t damaged. Except the eye mask – I’m afraid we can’t accept returns on that for hygiene reasons. Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities bears no responsibility for any unpleasant or unsettling experiences induced by our products, as the origin and intended effects of each product is clearly indicated on the label.’ He checked. So they were.

‘Don’t worry—I won’t be returning any of them.’

Several weeks later, the door opened to Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities. When the assistant caught sight of him her eyes widened a little, but she smiled. ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘How was the starlight?’

‘I took it before I tried anything else,’ he said tentatively. ‘Then I used the headphones and the eye mask. Best night’s sleep I’ve ever had. I woke up with—with some feelings I hadn’t noticed for a while.’

‘Like what?’

‘Clarity. Self-esteem… Hope.’ All weighty words to throw at someone he’d met once for ten minutes, but not long ago describing himself as anything but numb would have felt an impossibility. He was struck by a sudden urge to give his previous self a hug. ‘That’s why came back, really. I wanted to say thank you for persuading me to buy some starlight.’

‘Well.’ she said. Fingers picked at a teal, lacy sleeve. ‘The starlight provides a little breathing room, certainly. But I rather think you did all the hard work yourself.’


	4. The Copse Part One (The Wheel of Fortune)

Year One:

They met in a café in Convent Garden. Neither of them could afford it, but it was busy enough that they wouldn’t be overheard, with a high enough staff turnover that they were unlikely to be remembered next year, and it was well established enough that it wasn’t likely to close any time soon. It was also just a few days before Christmas, so most other customers were too busy to notice that a mismatched couple were discussing the occult.

‘How have you been?’ Yanni asked, once they were both seated.

‘Oh, you know…’ Carla scowled at her lemonade.

‘Not sleeping?’ he guessed. ‘Nightmares when you do. Apparitions in the corner of your eye when you’re trying to watch TV? It’s all to be expected.’ Carla did not look surprised. But then, she’d probably known that before they started the ritual.

‘Has anyone approached you about James?’ Carla asked. Yanni looked at her over his beer glass.

‘No. I kept expecting them to, but no.’

‘Good.’ Carla drained her glass. ‘If they didn’t this year, they probably won’t.’

‘I was thinking,’ Yanni said as Carla started to gesture for the bill, ‘I’d love to read some of your books about Bishop’s Creek and the ritual you did. Maybe I could come up and see you sometimes, or you could come back to the Creek, to talk about what ha—’

‘No. If you hadn’t been there that night, nothing bad would have happened.’

‘You don’t know that—’

‘Oh, so you’re an expert?’ Carla had kept her temper for a full calendar year. Now she was glad she’d waited to at least see Yanni again before exploding. ‘You just turned up—’

‘By accident. I was aiming for the main road and took a cut through because I knew my dad would be out looking for me. You interrupted my one chance at freedom. When—when he disappeared, I knew I couldn’t leave you to face the consequences by yourself, so I went back home. And I tried to speak to you at school, but you insisted we only meet on the anniversary in case it looked suspicious that we were talking. Which it wouldn’t have done, because we were in the same geography class.’

‘Oh.’

Yanni threw a fiver onto the table and stood up without looking at Carla. ‘You’re welcome. See you in a year.’

Year Four:

By now, it felt like habit. 11am, café, drinks, quick chat about the lack of news, go. Neither of them ever remembered to wish the other a merry Christmas, and neither noticed. There was no point in prolonging a status report. But this year, Yanni had something substantial to share.

‘Some kids found the clearing.’

‘What! How?’ Normally, Carla wore a heavy coat and jeans—it was midwinter, after all—but this year her second-hand fleece had been replaced with a distinctly new-looking trench coat with a distinctly designer air.

‘Same way we did, I suppose.’

‘Do you mean by running away from home or by looking for magic?’

Yanni ignored her. ‘I don’t think they could have done anything. The conditions weren’t right. No full moon, no preparations. It’s unlikely they knew the incantations as well as you did.’

Carla was grudgingly proud of her one-time dedication to sorcery.

‘Anyway, five of them went and five of them came back. I think they just wanted somewhere to drink and take edgy photos for their Instagrams.’

‘Well. That’s good.’ Carla fidgeted with her necklace, clearly ready to leave, so Yanni figured he’d better get his second bit of news in quickly.

‘I saw James’s mum in town a few weeks ago.’

‘How is she?’

‘Honestly? She looked fine. She had the little ones with her. There are a million of them. How many siblings did James have?’

‘Six. Three older, three younger.’ Carla did not mention that this left James precisely in the middle, the part of the film no one remembered.

‘There are more than three little ones now. She’s taken down the last of the missing signs,’ Yanni added. ‘I think maybe they’ve decided he ran away.’

‘Maybe he did.’

They were quiet for a minute. Then Carla pushed her glass aside and gestured for the bill.

‘Well, if anything else happens in the clearing, call me.’

‘Really?’ Yanni had not forgotten their first meeting.

‘Yes, of course. I didn’t leave Bishop’s Creek forever, you know. I still go back and visit my mum.’ She chucked some change on the table. ‘How about you?’

‘Never really left, did I?’

Year Six:

Carla’s phone rang. It was June, so she wasn’t expecting Yanni to be on the other end and answered it at her desk without properly looking at the caller ID.

‘I saw him.’

‘What?’

‘Carla, I saw James.’

‘Hang on, hang on—’ Carla was already halfway down the stairs, hurrying down to the entrance of her building. Nestled amongst skyscrapers in the square mile, her office was on the tenth of thirteen floors. Down here, she could catch her breath with relative privacy. She had shared nothing of her life with her colleagues except that she enjoyed baking and had once been to Edinburgh.

‘Yanni, say that again.’

‘I saw him, Carla. On the high street. Exactly as he was when he disappeared. I mean, exactly.’

‘Follow him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m getting the next train back. Follow him and phone me with any updates.’

Half an hour later, with London receding and Bishop’s Creek looming, Carla allowed herself to picture the last time she had seen her best friend. Now half a decade had passed, she could look back without thinking too harshly of either herself or Yanni.

Carla and James, obsessed with the supernatural, following ley lines and exploring haunted buildings and reading every slightly-occult-might-be-magic text they could find. Their delight at learning that a copse outside their sleepy country town could be the site of an ancient and unspecified power source. Visiting during the winter solstice, mission: wake up whatever’s there. Running into Yanni, someone they’d only ever passed in the corridors. Realising that he was using the copse as a cut through to get to the nearest main road, their irritation that he was in their way. Doing the incantation anyway, as Yanni looked on with raised eyebrows. A branch fell from a tree. It was so loud that Carla closed her eyes for a second, certain they were going to be squashed.

When she opened them, Yanni was the only other person in the clearing.

It had taken Carla the best part of six years to get used to a Bishop’s Creek that didn’t have James in it. Did she really want to get her hopes up?

Her phone rang. Yanni’s number.

‘Carla?’ Not Yanni’s voice.

‘J—James?’

‘Hiya.’


	5. The Copse Part Two (The Wheel of Fortune)

It took two train stations for Carla to respond. The phone line was still open.

‘Is it really…’

Now she could hear Yanni on the other end, talking excitedly. ‘It’s really him, Carla. When’s your train coming in?’

‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Good. I’ll pick you up.’

Yanni met her on the platform.

‘It’s really him, Carla,’ he repeated as he ushered her into a very old Nissan Micra.

‘Where is he?’

‘My place.’

‘Where is your place?’ Carla realised she’d never asked him where he lived before.

‘Above the pub on the high street. I work there, so the commute’s not too bad…’ they were both really too anxious for humour to work, but they both appreciated his effort.

‘Is he… is he…’

‘See for yourself.’

Yanni’s flat was actually a bedsit, full of band posters and pride flags and half-strung guitars. And sitting on a beaten-up old armchair, standing up when she walked in—

‘Hiya, Carl.’

For a minute, all Carla could hear was a hum from the high street and the ticking of a clock hidden somewhere in the room. James hadn’t changed a bit. Same large glasses, same grubby trainers, same dark eyes and buzzed scalp. Carla sank down onto the nearest available space, a pile of blankets that looked suspiciously like Yanni’s bed. Acutely sensing that Carla was on the verge of a breakdown, Yanni went for the kettle, then changed his mind and went for the door.

‘Won’t be a sec, I’m just going to get something alcoholic.’

Once Yanni was out of the room, Carla found herself looking anywhere but James. She counted four guitars, six books on the supernatural and a frying pan that needed to be put out of its misery. When she had the nerve to look back at James, he was cleaning his glasses. As usual, he missed the most obvious smudge on the lens.

Carla was suddenly afraid, and angry, but she wasn’t sure who she was angry at.

‘How do I actually know you’re you?’

They knew each other too well for James to think she was joking. He sat back down. ‘You first got into magic because you read a book about ley lines. Your mum pushed you into taking ballet as an extracurricular when you were seven so you sprained your own ankle to get out of it. You always wanted to go into graphic design. Last time I saw you, which was about… twelve hours ago, you were wearing a giant fleece that smelt like a dead sheep and hiking boots with the red laces I got you for Secret Santa.’

‘Those… those laces were pink.’

‘They’re red!’

Carla dug into her handbag. Tied to her keys, the only place she could think to put them without it looking odd, were a set of faded, frayed, pomegranate-coloured shoelaces.

James blinked. ‘I got you those last week.’

‘You got me them five Christmases ago.’

Except for the clock, the room was completely silent again, although Carla fancied that if she listened hard enough, she might hear the cogs in James’s brain turning.

‘It’s really been six years.’

‘Yep.’

‘Was Yanni taking the piss? Did Donald Trump really get elected president?’

‘Yep. What’s the last thing you remember?’

‘Us. In the copse. You doing your incantating thing. A branched creaked like it was going to fall down, so I hurried to the other side of the clearing. When I turned around, you were gone, so I wandered around for a bit. Before I knew it it was light, so I walked back into town. Walked into Yanni on the high street. I nearly got hit by an electric car. Those things are really quiet.’

Carla’s brain felt like it did when she worked out her tax return. ‘You’ve… you’ve lost six years.’

‘I think I’ve skipped six years.’

‘You’re remarkably calm about this.’

‘That’s probably because last night I was in a clearing with you doing some magic. It hasn’t sunk in yet. You’ve, um, you’ve had six years to think about it.’ He cleaned his glasses again.

It dawned on Carla that she had never really grasped quite how much she had missed him. She missed having a best friend to text and she missed having someone to watch bad TV with and she missed their shared obsession with the supernatural. She missed him, too, his wry sense of humour and depressing practical streak and unfathomable love of strawberry laces.

Before she could say anything, Yanni returned with three fancy glasses and a bottle of brandy. ‘Brandy’s good for shock, right? Also no one really drinks it so no one will notice I’ve borrowed it.’

James looked at the glass Yanni was offering him. ‘I’m underage.’

‘Shit. So you are. I’ll have yours.’

James turned his attention back to Carla.

‘So. How… are you?’

‘Oh, you know.’

He studied her. ‘You look older.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know what I mean! Grown up. Ish.’

‘I’m twenty-four.’

James pulled a face. ‘Old.’

Yanni was saying something about brandy, but Carla wasn’t listening. She was thinking about how angry she had been that James’s parents were so quick to write off as having run away, how scared she was that they might think to ask questions she couldn’t answer. How frustrated when it became clear they didn’t want to ask anything. She remembered the frantic searches in the days after he disappeared, praying he had wandered home and caught a cold and the bad weather, or dropped his phone in a ditch. The slow ebbing away of hope until she couldn’t bear to stay in Bishop’s Creek any longer.

She drained her glass.

Year Seven:

They met in a café in Covent Garden, for old times’ sake, even though they were all about to board the train back to Bishop’s Creek. Yanni and James had come down together, to stay in her front room for a few days now school was finished. Carla housed a suspicion they were together together, but she wasn’t going to say anything until they did.

James had been obsessed with taking pictures since he discovered the improvements in camera phone technology, so Carla and Yanni left him to eyeball tourists while they found a table.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Yanni once they were sat down.

‘For what? Leaving the thermostat on so it was one hundred degrees in your living room last night?’

‘For being so rude to you all these years. For insisting we keep away from each other. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. And you can have my old books on the occult.’

‘I got the impression you’d burnt or shredded them.’

‘They’re in my mum’s loft.’

‘Thanks.’ Yanni looked like he might regret what he was going to say next, but ploughed on. ‘You know… You can stop looking over your shoulder now. He’s back. He sleeps on my sofa. You can relax.’

‘I know. Old habits die hard.’

‘That reminds me. How are the apparitions?’

‘Better,’ Carla admitted. ‘Although part of me misses them.’

A minute later, James joined them in a flurry of snowflakes. Carla wondered if she’d ever stop being surprised to see him.

‘How are A Levels?’ Carla asked after he had shown them fourteen perfectly captured shots of tourists. They’d seen each other a lot since the day James returned, but since September he’d been too busy with school to talk much.

‘They’ve changed the system.’ James winced. ‘I’m thinking of doing some travelling after I go to college. Catch up on some of the time I missed.’

‘How’s your mum doing?’

‘Honestly, it’s like I was never away. She has decided I was taken by the Devil. I never thought I’d say this but thank God for devout Christians. She accepted me back without a question. I don’t think she realises that although I was gone six whole years, I never actually aged. I think she thinks I went off to join a cult or something.’

‘What about your siblings?’

‘Younger ones don’t remember me, older ones assumed I’d joined a gang and been stabbed to death. Their concern was touching. My dad was glad to see me back, though. Not glad enough to offer me a place to stay, although that might be because someone’s girlfriend is staying in my old bed.’

‘So what is it really like, staying with Yanni?’

Yanni rolled his eyes. ‘Excellent.’

James grinned. ‘It’s fantastic. I’m learning loads about obscure sixties music.’

‘Not sure how he’s smarter than me when I’m six years older.’

‘How old are you?’ Carla wondered.

‘Officially, I was twenty-four in August. Unofficially, I was eighteen.’

‘You were always an old soul,’ Carla mused.

‘We still need to throw you an eighteenth-and-twenty-first party,’ Yanni insisted. ‘Carl, we thought we’d wait until you’re home.’

‘Let’s do it at new year,’ James suggested. ‘Before you come back to the big smoke to conquer the graphic design universe.’ Carla smiled. Big smoke. He was such a weirdo.

Yanni raised his glass. ‘A toast, please, ladies and gentlemen.’

‘A toast?’ Carla asked. ‘To whom?’

‘To us,’ Yanni said confidently. ‘To James being thrown through time like a stray tennis ball, which brought the three of us together in a mind-bending and roundabout way.’

They clinked glasses.

‘I want to go back to the copse.’ Carla announced.

Yanni and James looked at each other.

‘Why?’ James asked after a moment.

‘I want to know what caused your time lapse. Why were you thrown through time like a stray tennis ball? Also…’ Carla looked at her lemonade. ‘Until you came back, I didn’t realise how screwed up the whole situation was. If I’d been thinking clearly, I might have figured out that you were lost in time and looked forward to seeing you again, instead of… running away.’

‘I don’t one blame you,’ James said. ‘I think you’ve both done pretty well to stay sane.’

‘Sane-ish,’ Carla said.

‘Ish,’ Yanni agreed. ‘Come on then. Let’s get the train back to our supernatural rural idyll. First one to be catapulted into 2035 buys me a flying car!’


	6. Forced Reflection (The Devil)

‘I want a refund.’

Angel Fitzgerald stood at the counter of Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities, clutching a large object partially wrapped in pink tissue. The assistant behind the counter, the short girl with miles of hair, eyed the offending product. ‘I’ll need to see a receipt and the label, please, ma’am.’

Angel threw them on the counter triumphantly. The assistant read both twice.

‘You’re well within your thirty-day return period, but I’m confused about why you’re here. What exactly is the problem with your mirror?’

‘It’s broken.’

‘May I?’ The assistant nodded to the tissue. Angel shrugged and stood back as the assistant tugged off the rest of the wrapping and examined the mirror closely. Then she peered into the glass, blinking at it for several seconds.

‘See?’ Angel burst out. ‘Broken.’

‘Hm. I don’t think… ma’am, I don’t think this is broken at all.’ The assistant adjusted her large, mustard-coloured cable knit cardigan, which Angel felt was almost as offensive as her lack of customer service. A second or two ticked by and Angel realised she was waiting for Angel to say something.

‘I want to speak to your manager.’

‘I’m afraid he’s on a yoga retreat.’

‘Then I want to speak to the girl who sold it to me.’

‘She’s on her break. Just one moment…’ the assistant disappeared into a back room and returned thirty seconds later with another teenage girl. Although better dressed than the first, she seemed equally oblivious to the mirror’s obvious faults when she inspected it.

‘This is as I sold it to you, ma’am, with the label attached and everything. There’s no reason I can see to refund you.’

‘You,’ Angel spat, ‘sold me a broken artefact.’

‘The Dorian Gray? Ma’am, the Dorian Gray reflects what’s in front of it.’

‘But… but… Arabella and I…’

The assistants looked at each other. They were a little mismatched—short and grungy, one willowy and chic—but they both seemed to be waiting for something.

Three Weeks Earlier:

Having purchased from Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities several times over the years, Angel Fitzgerald had a good idea of what would suit her daughter for her eighteenth birthday: a ballgown or pair of shoes that imbued the wearer with poise or knowledge; a champagne flute that never emptied; a bangle that warned the wearer when danger was nearby (but still looked good with any outfit). Anything that would work as a nice companion to Arabella’s main gifts, which were a custom-plated Mercedes and a fortnight in Barbados.

‘We don’t actually take orders for items,’ the shop assistant said doubtfully when Angel voiced her requests at the counter. Angel hadn’t seen her before: she had enormous periwinkle eyes and a chalky complexion, with cheekbones that could have modelled for Vogue. Dressed in a blazer and dark jeans that Angel, a purveyor of the finest vintage clothes, recognised as excellent finds, she seemed at odds with this cramped little shop. If Angel had been the sort of person to consider other people’s lives, she would have wondered why someone with such an impeccable sense of style was working in a run-down magical antiques shop off Southend high street. She wasn’t, though, so she asked, ‘What would make my daughter’s birthday unforgettable?’

The assistant walked around the shop. ‘We have a jewellery box that requires its owner’s fingerprint to open—’

‘We already have a safe.’

‘These earrings bring the wearer financial luck—’

‘Do you have them in something that isn’t pearl?’

‘No. This necklace—’

‘Is made of jade. Which won’t suit Arabella’s complexion at all.’

Angel circled the shop herself, tugging dresses off hangars and inspecting the underside of boxes and vases.

‘What’s this?’ Angel had spotted something shiny and silver on a shelf next to a trinket dish.

‘It’s a mirror.’

‘I know it’s a mirror. What does it do?’ Aesthetically, it wasn’t Arabella’s usual style. An oval looking glass with a plain silver frame, the bottom was engraved with latet enim veritas, sed nihil pretiosius veritate in an elegant script. It looked like the sort of thing you found in the bedrooms of recently deceased elderly ladies.

‘We call it the Dorian Gray,’ the assistant said. ‘It shows the viewer the inside of their soul. It’s on a detachable frame for use on shelves or dressers, but there’s also a hook at the back to put it on the wall.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Are you sure?’ the assistant asked. ‘We recommend you read the label before making a purchase.’

Reflects the soul of the observer. Not for consumption alongside mind-altering substances, magical or otherwise. The mirror will only work to its full power when reflecting one human person. Note the reflection is only visible to the person it depicts, for privacy reasons.

‘I’ll take it. How much is it?’

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds,’ the assistant said as she extracted the mirror from the shelf.

‘Do you gift wrap?’

‘No. You have thirty days to return anything, unused, with the receipt and in the correct packaging, as long as it isn’t damaged. Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities bears no responsibility for any unpleasant or unsettling experiences induced by our products, as the origin and intended effects of each product is clearly indicated on the label.’

‘Fine.’

The Present Day:

The silence in the shop was beginning to get uncomfortable, even for Angel.

‘This mirror is exactly as I sold it to you,’ the tall girl said after a minute. ‘Ma’am, excuse me for asking, but is it possible your daughter just didn’t see what she expected to?’

‘But I saw it too.’

The assistants looked at one another again.

‘Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities bears no responsibility for any unpleasant or unsettling experiences induced by our products, as the origin and intended effects of each product is clearly indicated on the label,’ the grungy one said. ‘That’s printed on your receipt, and I know my colleague will have said it before you made your purchase. Unfortunately, ma’am, we can’t refund you based on what you saw in the mirror.’

‘I will come back when your manager has returned from his retreat!’ Angel snapped. She could not believe that two girls younger than Arabella had the gall to refuse her statutory rights. There would be a bad Facebook review from this, if she could find Bezzina’s on Facebook.

‘He won’t be back until Monday week. By then, your thirty days will be up,’ she said smoothly. ‘But you are of course welcome to come back when he’s around. Think of it this way, ma’am. Your reflection might have changed by then.’


	7. The Portrait Witch (The Hermit)

Ask anyone: twenty-eight Wimbourne Way was the place to go if you needed a helping hand with your life. For the price of one good deed, or a couple of thousand pounds, the witch who lived there would paint you and at least the likeness of your loved ones into a scene of your heart’s desire. Expect to find yourself living at least the likeness of that scene anywhere between two months and two years later. The witch was very good at it and rarely had complaints. This was predominantly because, as she always said, _you really put the hard work in yourself, although it does help to visualise where you want to go._ Psychobabble bullshit? Legitimate magic? The positive impact that visualisation (and a hot cup of tea with an understanding stranger) can have on one’s mental health?

No one really cared; they were just glad they had somewhere to go when things got desperate.

The witch’s most interesting portrait for decades came to the door one Thursday evening in February, in the form of a tall, gangly teenage girl with heaps of bright orange curls. Not the sort of orange that experimental teens like to colour their hair, the sort of orange that one is cursed with from birth. Both the witch and the girl, Tansy, were aware that in a few years’ time Tansy would own the hair instead of the hair owning Tansy. Both were aware that she was not quite there yet.

‘How can I help you?’ the witch asked when Tansy was seated, with tea, in the witch’s art-studio-living-room-office. Tansy surveyed her surroundings. The room felt more like an old theatre than anything else, with gilded plasterwork, dark pink wallpaper, velvet-covered armchairs and what looked suspiciously like gas lamps. Several easels were dotted about, with a variety of end tables and cabinets pressed into use as work benches or filing cabinets. Dozens of portraits hung on the walls, which gave Tansy the vague impression of being watched.

‘I would like you to paint me with my family please,’ she said. ‘I have a… a disjointed home life and I would like for it to iron out, just a little.’

‘Of course. You emailed me…’ The witch rustled several stacks of paper, most of which were dangerously close to the gas lamps.

‘Last week.’

‘Last week, with some photos of the family… two parents, one grandmother? Ah, I’ve printed them out… here. We agreed a price of…’

‘One good deed.’

‘And is it done?’

‘Yes. Do you want to know what it is?’

‘Only if you wish to tell me.’

Tansy said nothing, so the witch gathered her watercolours and her preferred easel and squinted at Tansy. ‘This could take anywhere between one and three hours,’ she warned. ‘I have some sandwiches if you get hungry.’

‘I should be fine, thank you, I had an early tea.’

The witch smiled faintly. ‘In that case, I’ll begin.’

‘How did you get into art?’ Tansy asked after a few minutes. She had never sat for her portrait before and found it slightly discomfiting, especially with all the other pictures watching her.

‘I always enjoyed artwork; it’s quite meditative, isn’t it?’

Tansy couldn’t say she agreed but nodded anyway.

‘When I was in my early forties, I found myself suffering both from the menopause and a spate of unemployment. This was before the internet, you see—nowadays you can find a coven in about three clicks. Back then, you found yourself in a community of witches and you stayed put… until they expressed a desire for you to move on. I washed up here, with some savings, and decided to give portrait art a go.’ Tansy found herself scanning the room again, taking in all the pictures. The vast majority seemed to be the witch’s own work, all watercolours and charcoals, signed with a loopy signature.

‘You’re very good,’ Tansy said honestly. ‘Do you get a lot of different clients?’

‘Oh yes, lots. I’ve had teachers, politicians, stay-at-home parents… sometimes people are between jobs, or a little stuck in their personal lives. You get the odd rock star or Hollywood starlet, but in some ways I prefer the little people. You’d be surprised how many folks forget to say thank you when their salary is more than four figures.’

Tansy gazed at the wall. ‘My dad’s a rock star,’ she heard herself tell the witch. ‘Well. Indie rock? I don’t even know, I’ve heard it too many times. Spends forty weeks a year touring. We moved eighteen times before I was twelve, and that doesn’t count hotels. Eventually my mum and nan moved us back here.’

‘Mm.’ The witch dabbed at her canvas absentmindedly. ‘That must have been an interesting childhood.’

‘Oh yes, it was—and I’m very grateful that we got to travel, and now we have a nice house. And he’s a great dad, I’m not dissing him. I don’t think he’s ever had any affairs or done loads of drugs or eaten any bats. He’s always available on the phone or iPad or whatever. Always has been. It’s just… it sort of feels like he considers his family as work and his work his family.’

‘Understandable,’ the witch nodded. ‘So you’d like a little more time together?’

‘Not _more_ time, necessarily.’ Tansy shifted in her chair. ‘Just for the time we do have to revolve around more than perfunctory conversation about the weather and my school.’

As she sat, Tansy found herself telling the witch all about her father’s meteoric rise to stardom. Most of it occurred while she was still teething and her mother worked in a hairdresser’s, with Nick Waterford gigging six nights a week and watching Tansy while her mother was at work. By the time Tansy was in pre-school, Nick had moved up the billing and into larger venues. By primary school he was touring worldwide. By secondary school he had reached the level of fame that allowed complete strangers to approach Tansy in the school corridor and say, ‘aren’t you Nick Waterford’s kid?’

Of course, Tansy had done most of her primary schooling in hotels and studios, her grandmother acting as tutor while her mother ran Nick’s schedule (although she still did his hair on occasion). Her childhood was, Tansy confessed, idyllic.

‘We aren’t this unhappy family,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s just that I sometimes think he can’t see past the next set of ticket sales and I don’t think that’s quite healthy.’

‘You count pennies as a child, you count them as an adult,’ the witch murmured, eyes on her work.

‘My dad always says that. Do you keep a lot of your portraits?’

‘A few. Some people don’t like to admit they’ve been to me. Some don’t want to remember a time in their life when I was their last resort.’

‘Mm. I’d like to take mine with me, please.’

‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow, when I’m sure it’s dry.’

Tansy nodded. Was that a real art thing or was the witch going to do some magic? She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

Two hours later, Tansy was safely out of the door with strict instructions to come back and call a cab if the buses weren’t running. The witch retreated to her front room, her portrait of Tansy and her family resting happily in her easel. Nestled in the room’s farthest corner, the one portrait Tansy hadn’t seemed to notice, was of a tall, rakish gentleman with a beaming wife and orange-haired toddler, standing on the edge of a stage.


	8. Respecting Wishes Part One (Judgement)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a commission from the lovely Sonia! Her prompt: 'Three friends in their mid-twenties meet at a fourth friend’s funeral. They haven’t seen each other since a fifth friend’s funeral when they were teens. Write their story. '

It was a lovely day for a funeral. The sun was warm, but not too harsh for standing around outside. Blossom floated through the air, giving the entire churchyard the vague impression of hosting a wedding. Well. Aside from the technicalities of the thing, there wasn’t a lot of difference between a wedding and a funeral. Both required guests to arrive with clean hair and a desire for diplomacy.

Clemency couldn’t get over how different it was to the last funeral she’d been to. The weather, for one thing. Horrible grey drizzle versus spring sunshine. The type of funeral, for another. Neutral crematorium versus quaint church. The biggest difference was in the atmosphere. Hysterical mother carried down the aisle versus stone-carved faces and a palpable, albeit unmentionable, sense of relief.

‘Do you feel like this should feel normal?’

Clemency jumped, although she shouldn’t have done. Her friend Tasha—her steadfast companion for the last funeral too—hadn’t left her side since they got out of the car. She hadn’t stopped fidgeting either, picking at a scab on her hand and adjusting the bow on her blouse.

‘I don’t think it’s supposed to feel normal,’ Tasha continued as they meandered from the graveside back to the church. ‘I think all funerals are supposed to feel like an out-of-body experience. But my nan’s funeral was nowhere near as… as _strange_ as this one.’

‘I suppose,’ Clemency replied, ‘that could be because the last time we were at a funeral, Jem was part of the congregation, not the main event.’

Tasha winced and Clemency felt bad for a second. Then she remembered that she hadn’t seen Tasha for five years despite at least thirty requests to meet up.

‘Shall we head for the restaurant?’ Clemency asked quickly. ‘I have a feeling we’ll be hard pushed to get a table.’ She turned toward the carpark and walked straight into the front of a smart suit.

‘Clem!’

It was Clemency’s turn to wince. She’d managed to avoid eye contact the entire service, even though he was sat on their pew, _and_ during the burial even though the three of them had instinctively stood together, and now she’d bloody walked into him. ‘Hey, Ben.’

‘Beautiful service, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’ Clemency had felt nothing but contempt throughout the whole thing. For the choice of hymns, for the bloke doing the eulogy—Jem’s first ever employee who clearly had no idea how his boss really worked on the inside—for Jem himself. He’d allowed himself to be immortalised by tabloid headlines about teenage prodigies and then by headlines about off the rails twenty-somethings and finally by headlines about well we saw that coming, didn’t we.

Dickhead.

‘Can I nab a lift to the wake?’

‘Sure!’ Tasha said enthusiastically, although she wasn’t the one driving.

As predicted, the wake was packed full. Mr and Mrs Brown had hired out a restaurant for the afternoon, and the bar looked as busy as it would have done on any evening out. Tasha headed straight for the scrum with a quick ‘I’ll get them.’

‘How’s Giovanni?’ Clemency asked Ben when they’d given Mr and Mrs Brown a hug and found a table. They had to pull their chairs in just to hear each other over the hubbub, which seemed to consist almost entirely about the latest decrease in local pollution levels, the new electric charging bays in the nearest car park and who the new CEO of JLB Ltd would be. At least, Clemency reflected, JLB had the grace to wait until after the funeral to announce Jem’s replacement. Then again, they’d probably had someone else in the pipeline since that first arrest for disorderly behavior.

‘He’s off his antidepressants,’ Ben was saying, ‘and he’s never missed a day of therapy. Not in eight years. He’s doing a couple of A levels at the college, wants to go away for university. Something to do with mental health or counselling. He still has bad days and weeks, but I think the very worst might be behind him for good.’

‘That’s great,’ Clemency said, and found she meant it.

‘How’s your mum?’

‘Really well. Not pre-cancer well, but her last few scans have been clear. She’s working again.’

‘That’s fantastic. Look, Clem, I—’ Clemency was saved by Tasha, who swooped in with a tray of drinks.

‘Alcohol-free G&T, Clem, cognac for the man with no taste buds and a vodka lemonade,’ she announced with a flourish.

‘They do alcohol-free gin?’ Clemency was surprised Tasha remembered both her drink of choice and that she was driving and felt bad again.

‘I think they do alcohol-free everything,’ Tasha replied. ‘I thought you shouldn’t miss out.’ She raised her glass. ‘To Jacob.’

‘To Jacob,’ Clemency and Ben echoed. They were silent for a minute. On the next table, a couple was talking about who would inherit the Italian villa and who would get the flat in London. What about the cars? Perhaps they would go to a girlfriend? His parents? Perhaps, the couple speculated, there might even be a mini Jacob running around somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise them in the slightest, not with Jacob’s lifestyle. Not that he was up to much toward the end except inhaling white powders, although they shouldn’t say that with Mrs Brown so close by. Now a baby, they decided, would be welcome news for the Brown family.

‘How have _you_ been?’ Ben asked Clemency. Maybe it was the toast, maybe it was the alcohol-free gin, maybe it was because, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mrs Brown break down in tears over a glass of wine, but she was suddenly tired of the entire day.

‘Don’t give me that.’

‘I’m being friendly!’ Ben snapped with at least as much venom she had, and Clemency was reminded all at once of the time they collaborated on a chemistry project for their GCSE. An argument over methodology erupted one afternoon and the classroom had to be evacuated when an unidentifiable cloud leaked from the test tubes. Neither of them had ever been great at listening to the other.

‘Look, I just…’ Clemency bit back five years of anger and frustration. ‘I reached out to you guys after Alex’s funeral. I wanted to talk about what happened and you just blanked me. I didn’t even hear from you a couple of years ago when my mum relapsed.’

Tasha had the grace to look at her glass. ‘I’m sorry, Clem. I just didn’t know what to say when you messaged me. And then I went to volunteer in Thailand and it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone. Your mum wasn’t _supposed_ to relapse after what happened.’

‘Ocean wasn’t supposed to fill up with plastic,’ Clemency pointed out.

Ben sipped his cognac. Clemency got the impression he was choosing his words. ‘I’m sorry too. After Alex died I was… it was the first year of uni, wasn’t it. I’d never been away from home for more than a week, and I’d never left Giovanni with just our parents before, and I was absolutely shite at my degree, and I just… it was easier not to pick up the phone. I didn’t want to think about what we’d done, I didn’t want to think about Alex dying and I couldn’t face talking about how we might be next.’

‘That’s what I wanted to get hold of you about. I think the magic worked exactly as it was supposed to.’

‘It can’t have done, Clem.’ Tasha’s scab broke open, oozing blood down her wrist. ‘They’re both dead. And we’re—we might be—’

‘We’re _not_ next.’ The couple on the next table jumped. ‘We’re not next,’ Clemency said softly. ‘I figured it out.’ She put her bag on the table and pulled out a small glass vial. Both Tasha and Ben leant backwards.

‘Read the packaging.’

_Once-Upon-a-Wish. This vial grants the drinker one wish. For best results, keep your desire clearly in your mind while consuming the potion. Please note that Once-Upon-a-Wish is only intended for small-to-medium scale needs. Not intended for children under 12 years. NOT DESIGNED FOR PERSONAL GAIN. Consumers should note that anything wished selfishly is liable to backfire due to the complex construction process._

_Thank you for purchasing from Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities. We hope you are pleased with the speed of delivery and the quality of your product. You have thirty days to return anything, unused, with the receipt and in the correct packaging, as long as it isn’t damaged. Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities bears no responsibility for any unpleasant or unsettling experiences induced by our products, as the origin and intended effects of each product is clearly indicated on the label._

‘I don’t get it.’ Ben frowned at the label. ‘We read the instructions when Jem bought them off the internet.’

‘I know.’ Clemency replied. ‘But what did you wish for?’


	9. Respecting Wishes Part Two (Judgement)

Eight Years Ago

‘It arrived!’ Jacob told Natasha in Maths, who told Clemency at break, who told Benito in History, who told Aleksandra at lunchtime. They congregated at Ben’s house that evening under the guise of English-homework-and-planning-Jem’s-seventeenth-birthday-party.

Five vials, all neatly packaged and shimmering slightly. Five teenagers with five wishes, all badly suppressed and simmering slightly. They sat on Ben’s bedroom floor; chairs would have felt less magical.

‘Do we all know what we’re wishing for?’ Aleksandra asked. ‘Should we tell each other?’

‘Don’t see why we have to,’ Jem replied. ‘I don’t want you lot knowing my innermost thoughts.’

‘We already do!’ Clemency pointed out. ‘You haven’t talked about anything except being a billionaire since we were in primary school. I don’t care who knows I’m wishing for my mum’s giant tumour to fuck off. Everyone is already wishing that, I’m just the only one who can actually do something about it.’

Ben nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t mind who knows I’m wishing for my brother to get well.’

‘I’m definitely not telling you mine,’ Tasha said, looping a curl around her finger. ‘It doesn’t feel as worthy.’

‘Course it is,’ Ben said at once. ‘You’re allowed to want something other than to fix someone, Tash. It’s not your fault that Clem and I have family members with shitty illnesses.’

Aleksandra inspected her vial. ‘So, we down them on three?’

‘I’ll count,’ Jem said immediately. He put on his moon landing voice. ‘And we have lift off in three, two, one…’

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of five teenagers knocking back magical shots.

‘What now?’ Aleksandra asked. She frowned at her friends. ‘You don’t look any different. Do I look any different?’

‘Same porcelain beauty as before.’ Clem patted Alex on the leg. ‘Right, next on the agenda: someone is turning seventeeeen…’

Five Years Ago

Really, Clemency thought, Aleksandra should have had the manners to die after A Level results day.

Crammed into the crematorium between both her parents, with Tasha’s family on one side and Jacob and Ben’s families in the row in front, it almost felt like the results day get together that hadn’t happened. Another thing, frankly, that Alex had ruined. Clemency’s mother shifted and Clemency tried to bring her attention back to the person doing the eulogy. A cousin or some shit. Mr and Mrs Reznik hadn’t wanted any of their daughter’s friends to speak at her funeral. Clemency didn’t blame them, but wished they remembered that Aleksandra’s first group of friends—the ones she saw out her GCSEs with, the ones she still met up with when she could, the ones she’d spoken to the very day she died because she thought things were getting out of hand—was infinitely better than the second.

How many of the second group was here? Clemency had spotted Marina Simmonds on the way in, but none of the rest. How many of Alex’s Instagram followers had contributed to her parents’ online fundraiser? Clemency had stalked the page with relish and discovered that most donations and comments were from Aleksandra’s real life, not her online one.

The cousin was saying something about Alex’s spirit, her tenacity for life. Clemency almost laughed. The Aleksandra she’d known since year seven was spirited and tenacious, but not in the way most people thought. Before the viral Instagram account, before the modelling, before the partying, Alex and Tasha would talk about how they were going to save the planet. They had contingency plans for getting arrested at rallies and wrote weekly letters to their MP. None of the speakers so far had mentioned the environment thing. None had mentioned the fad diets, the juice cleanses, the times Tasha and Clemency had found her hiding in the toilets at lunchtime because someone had said something while they got changed for PE.

Clemency turned over her order of service. The Aleksandra of old would have hated all those photos. Too many unflattering angles. The Aleksandra of the last few years would have been proud that so many of her #bodypositive posts had made it to print.

The cousin was still talking. No one was going to mention how she died, were they. That would be left until the wake, when whispers of _so tragic_ and _what a waste_ and _honestly, I thought she was smart enough to not get in the car with a drugged-up driver_ were out of Mrs Reznik’s earshot.

Clemency realised she was crying.

The Present Day

‘I wished for the environment to get cleaner,’ Tasha said. She dabbed her wrist with a serviette. ‘I told you it sounded worse than yours.’

‘Did the environment get any better?’ Clemency asked.

Tasha considered. ‘Not on a global scale. At least, not because of me. The problem is too big for that.’

‘What about _your_ environment? The dog shelter in Thailand achieved its goal of ridding the region of rabies while you were there, I saw it on Facebook. It happened about five years earlier than expected. Pollution levels are _down_ in town, Tash. Down. Despite the new bloody ring road you campaigned against.’

‘It… I suppose. And you two got what you wanted. What about Alex and Jem, though? What did they wish for?’

‘The real question,’ Ben said quietly, ‘is what did they get?’ He picked up Clemency’s vial and rolled it between his fingers, frowning. Tasha took it from him and frowned too.

The couple on the next table had moved on to talking about how someone’s brother-in-law had spotted beavers in the nearest river. ‘Such a welcome bit of good news,’ the wife said. ‘I mean, I know we don’t really do nature, Greg, but it’s _good_ news.’

Greg shrugged. ‘I’ll be a bit more excited if they stop all the flooding!’

A tiny smile tugged at Tasha’s mouth. ‘I don’t blame them,’ she decided.

‘I do,’ Clemency said.

Ben drained his glass and stood up. ‘I don’t know yet. Right. I’m buying this round.’


	10. The Statue of Laurel Cottage Part One (Strength)

When estate agents tried to sell Laurel Cottage, they mentioned the six bedrooms, the floor-to-ceiling windows and surprisingly sustainable heating costs. And, of course, the irony of such an old, grand, gated house being called a cottage. They did not mention the garden.

When perspective buyers visited, encouraged by the relatively low price and desirable neighbourhood, they always stopped dead when they saw the garden. Not in a _wow, this is a stunning vista!_ kind of way. More of a _wow, that’s the catch_ kind of way.

Initially, nothing seemed amiss. A neat terraced patio lead down to a sweeping lawn, which was edged by an array of shrubs and trees that looked easy to maintain. It all felt rather lovely… until one noticed the brambles at the bottom of the garden.

Or rather, the wall of brambles at the bottom.

Squinting, and maybe standing on tiptoes for a better look, viewers would catch a glimpse of what stood behind the brambles.

‘Ah yes,’ the estate agent would say. ‘That’s… a feature.’

‘What… is it?’ Buyers would enquire tentatively.

‘It’s a statue. Been there longer than the cottage, according to our records.’

‘What’s the statue of?’

‘A Roman-style woman. It’s known the Romans settled in the area—are you local? This region has such a rich past, you’ll love living here if you’re interested in history, there’s a Saxon burial site a few miles up the road…’

By then most viewers were already halfway down the lawn, peering through the thicket. The mess of plants wasn’t just brambles, they realised, but nettles and ivy and ambiguous weeds, all wrapped around themselves as though knitted by a demonic gardener.

‘How come it’s so… overgrown? The rest of the garden has been kept beautifully by the current owners.’

The estate agent would laugh nervously. ‘Well, it’s a funny story. Peabody & Jennings Estate Agents has looked after Laurel Cottage for decades. If you’re local you’ll know that the larger houses in this area often find themselves without tenants due to the, er, _second home_ nature of most properties. We maintain the house and garden when it’s between residents and add any costs onto our commission. It’s an unusual set up, but it was contracted to the agency when we first took it over.

‘The statue, well, we’ll cut back the plants around the statue one day and the next morning they’re fully grown again.’

This was usually where the perspective buyers exchanged looks. Sometimes the look said _this estate agent is mad_. Others said _there is no way a five-foot cube of brambles can grow overnight_.

Sometimes the more curious (or sceptical) buyers would ask for a demonstration, wait for the estate agent to dig a chainsaw and overalls out of the garage, watch as they hacked the brambles back to reveal a very nice classical statue, and come back the next day.

No matter how clear the area was when they left, no matter how visible the statue was—and they always agreed that it was very lifelike, with excellent craftsmanship—the next morning it was obscured by a thicket you’d expect to take years to grow.

This was the main reason Laurel Cottage went on the market at least once a decade.

That and the fact most residents swore that every time they cut the brambles back, the statue would move.

Emil Torres was in the housing business to help people put down roots, so he was more excited than his colleagues when his boss asked him to show a buyer around the cottage, which was for sale for the third time since Emil had joined the Peabody & Jennings. The current owners spent most of their year in the Caribbean and had recently begun shedding assets for tax purposes, so all communications were done over Skype, with Emil given permission to show Laurel Cottage to anyone who might be interested in buying for cash.

As he drove out to the cottage—really, it was absurd that these houses were half a mile apart, enjoyed unspoilt views of surrounding farmland and existed within the same borough as his own one bedroom flat—Emil wondered if he would see Hallucination Sad Lady while he was there.

Hallucination Sad Lady was legendary within the Peabody & Jennings office. Initially the agency had called her Sad Lady. Almost an office mascot, she could be seen lingering outside Laurel Cottage during most viewings. She never actually approached anyone; she just stood across the street watching estate agents show viewers though the door with the expression one usually saved for funerals.

It took multiple sales over several decades for the staff to realise that this thin, well dressed, Mediterranean-looking young woman hadn’t, in over fifty years, aged a day. It was then that they started calling her Hallucination Sad Lady.

Sure enough, when Emil pulled up to the house, Hallucination Sad Lady was on the doorstep. He’d never seen her go past the driveway before and decided to let her leave quietly while he chatted to the gardener, who had just finished tidying up the garden in preparation for a weekend of back-to-back viewings.

‘I did some of the brambles while I was there,’ Paul said cheerfully. ‘Thought it might be nice to let the viewers get a closer look without you risking that nice suit. Statue’s same as ever. Just like someone else I know. Has she ever come this far up the driveway before?’

Emil shrugged and hurried to the door. Up close, she looked young enough to be in her teens, which made the hairs on the back of Emil’s neck stand up.

‘Hello,’ he began. ‘I’m just about to show—’

‘You’re showing me Laurel Cottage,’ she smiled, and stuck out her hand. Her accent was cut glass English with a hint of something. Italian, maybe, or Greek.

‘You’re—you’re Silvia Benedict?’ Emil glanced at his folder to verify her details, his insides squirming and his neck hairs prickling uncomfortably. Emil decided it was time to admit that he believed in the supernatural a lot more than he let on.

‘That’s me. Are we going in?’

As Emil gave Silvia the tour, he wondered what the office would say when he told them Hallucination Sad Lady was very softly spoken and smelt a bit like chamomile.

‘And the living room opens out onto the garden, if you’d like to follow me down—’

‘I’d like to make an offer on the cottage.’

‘Al-already?’

‘Yes. I have this much money to offer you, in cash.’

Silvia opened a banking app on her phone and showed Emil the display.

‘See? It’s all there.’

‘That’s—that’s a substantial offer, ma’am, but lower than the asking price.’ Emil tried to conceal the fact he felt slightly faint at the number of digits on Silvia’s bank account balance.

‘Is it? Money just isn’t worth what it used to be. Well…’ Silvia gazed out at the garden. ‘How about I offer you that… and a story.’

‘A story?’ He did not think a story was worth several thousand pounds to his Caribbean couple, cash buyer or not.

‘A story about why that statue stays covered in brambles. Ah, now you’re interested. Shall we go down?’

Without another word, Silvia set off dawn the lawn. By the time Emil caught up with her, she was staring at the statue. Paul had made enough of a gap in the thicket that you could see it clearly without mistaking the cage-like nature of the brambles. The plants had done a spectacular job, Emil realised, of keeping the statue protected from the elements. If he hadn’t known that the statue was far older than the cottage, and that the cottage was far older than the town, he would have thought it new.

‘It’s lifelike, isn’t it?’ Silvia said.

‘You’ve seen it before?’

‘It’s possible I’ve found other ways of coming in than the front door,’ she acknowledged, still watching the statue.

Emil followed her gaze while he tried to think up a response. Well, it would have been odd if she hung around the place for decades but never went inside. The statue _was_ quite lifelike: it was in the classical style, he supposed—lots of toga-esque clothing and long hair. Her face didn’t quite match the standard ‘pensive garden ornaments’ look, though. Her face was thin, her brows furrowed, her chin set. She looked, in fact, quite angry.

‘Would you like to hear the story out here?’ Silvia asked. ‘Or should we go inside?’

‘Out here,’ Emil decided. He took off his jacket, used it as a blanket and sat on the lawn. After a moment, Silvia joined him. She coughed a couple of times and, without taking her eyes off the statue, began talking.


	11. The Statue of Laurel Cottage Part Two (Strength)

Once upon a time, when Great Britain was full of farmland, occupying Romans and bad teeth, there was a girl with an overbearing father. Once upon a time, there was a girl in love with the girl with an overbearing father.

Once upon a time, both the father and the girlfriend visited a witch.

The father had one goal: to bend his child to his will, so she would marry a suitable man, settle down and give him peace in his old age.

The girlfriend had one goal: to stop him.

When it became clear to the father that his daughter, Mariana, was less pliable than solid rock and had no intention of respecting his wishes, the father approached the village witch for supernatural help. He initially requested a simple mind-altering drug, something to make Mariana compliant. The gods had cursed him with a daughter but no sons, so he felt justified in asking for this small magical favour to make the best of what he had.

Mariana, unfortunately, was too headstrong. The potion he fed her did not take; she would not marry his choice of husband. She wanted to study medicine.

On his second visit to the witch, he demanded a more permanent solution.

After substantial haggling, the witch provided him with a spell that would turn a person into stone.

It worked.

When he realised there would be no more arguing, no more embarrassment within the community that his only child was running wild, the father wept a little and praised the gods for their help. The local witch rolled her eyes and counted her money.

The father planned to sell the statue.

When Mariana’s girlfriend, Silvia, learnt of her fate, she threw herself at the knees of the witch and begged for something to reverse the magic.

‘Grant me something,’ she pleaded. ‘Surely there’s a way to undo your enchantment.’

‘The spell will hold for two thousand years,’ the witch warned. ‘My magic can hold out for precisely that long and no longer—since my customers and any war mongering offspring they might produce will be long gone by then. You would wait two millennia to see Mariana again?’

‘I would,’ Silvia wept. ‘Give me a way to keep us close and I will stay with her until she is free.’

‘Very well,’ the witch acquiesced. She had been young once—well, younger—and remembered the pain of losing a loved one. ‘I can protect you both until she wakes up. But you must know, child, that there is a price.’

‘Name it.’

‘I’m not talking about money. Besides, that old lout paid my expenses for a decade. Once Mariana is herself again, nature will catch up with you both. You will have a week at most before you both crumble to dust.’

Silvia thought about it. ‘One week of freedom together is better than an eternity apart. I accept your terms.’

‘Careful, child,’ the witch warned. ‘I will not live long enough to know if my magic holds as I expect. You will be waiting longer than anyone should naturally live, just for one week of life in a world that Mariana will not recognise.’

‘I am prepared to wait,’ Silvia insisted. ‘Give us the means to stay together and I will ensure that when the time comes, our week will be worth the wait.’

‘In that case,’ the witch said as she reached for her spell books, ‘I would start learning some hobbies.’

Emil had to take a minute to gather his thoughts once Silvia had ended her story.

The statue, Mariana, seemed to be looking straight at him.

‘So you’ve been waiting for her to wake up for two thousand years?’

‘One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine years and one hundred and thirty and a half days.’

‘And you want the house to be ready for when she wakes up.’

‘Exactly.’

They were silent for several minutes. Then Emil stood up. Silvia followed, a little unsteady on her feet. Well, she was getting on a bit. ‘I think, Ms. Benedict, we have a deal.’

Several months later, the Peabody & Jennings received a letter from Silvia Benedict. In it were the deeds to the lodge and a photograph of two young women, standing in the garden, laughing.


	12. Help Wanted (The Moon)

Bethanie had been meaning to visit Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities her entire year at university. Typically, she only managed it on her final day in Southend, when her bags were packed and she knew it was now or never. The trip was a little gift to herself, a ‘congratulations for surviving this far’ kind of a thing.

There was no chance of her coming back, so she knew that if she didn’t get down there now, she never would. There was no way she’d make the two-hundred-mile trip just to visit a crumbling antiques shop, not between the funeral and the probate and her maxed out overdraft. Besides, she’d heard a rumour that Bezzina’s always had what you were looking for, and she was looking for… a miracle?

Not a miracle, she corrected herself as she made her way down the high street. She wasn’t that naïve. Maybe just… something else to think about.

Once outside, her first impression was of disappointment. Was this it? The boutique you were told to visit from the moment you set foot in the town, that commanded eighty thousand hashtag uses on Instagram despite not having a website, one of the few places in Great Britain today where you were guaranteed to find actual magic.

The window display was appropriately summery, full of fresh flowers that grew, wilted and re-grew as Bethanie watched. A mini fridge, painted in a minty ice cream colour, had a neat, handwritten sign on the front: _Any foodstuff placed in here will multiply by eight. Solar-powered._ A pink and white striped parasol bore another sign: _Will shade the holder from sun and nightmares._

Although the display was neat and pretty, the shopfront itself had seen better days: paint peeled off the walls, weeds lurked on the path and the sign, which was probably hand painted, was peeling so badly that from a distance, it read ‘Bezzinas Emooriun or Maoical Artefacts and Antiauities’.

Bethanie hadn’t come to stare at the building, so she stepped through the paneled door. A small sign, in the same hand as the product tags, was tacked on the inside of the glass _: Help wanted._ _Enthusiastic assistant required_ _for light administrative duties, stock management and customer service. Weekends only. Apply within._

Inside was worse.

The shop floor felt like a junk yard, or perhaps the living room of a very old, not-quite-there art dealer _._ Shelves leaned on cabinets propped up by chairs and ladders and guitar amps. There was a little order; clothes pushed together on a rail, white goods stacked on a kitchen table. It was very clean, but it felt rather like Bethanie’s bedroom back at home, when she had started doing a serious clear out before uni and got disheartened when she realised it was impossible to go through eighteen years of stuff in one day.

Not what she would have expected from Great Britain’s foremost dealer of magical antiquities.

Bethanie hoped the new assistant enjoyed tidying.

The man behind the counter was also not as Bethanie expected. She had anticipated someone otherworldly, perhaps wearing Victorian-esque attire or smoking a pipe. An eyepatch would not have gone amiss; nor would a raven perched on his shoulder. What she got was a gentleman in his seventies who looked like a lot like her old yoga teacher. Small and lean, he wore a shirt that was almost certainly made of hemp or organic cotton. His blue eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, glimmered like gems. The only thing suggesting he had anything to do with the business of otherworldly retail were his arms and hands, which were tattooed in a cacophony of designs. Symbols on his knuckles; some sort of cross on one hand; a sailing boat and waves crashing up one arm and around his elbow.

Bethanie realised she was staring and turned her attention to the shelves. What was really here for her, in this cramped little shop? This watch, which told the time of your next significant social encounter? This kettle, guaranteed to pour out whichever you most needed to drink and without requiring a plug? This rocking chair, stocked with just the right number of cushions for the bottom seated in it?

‘Can I help you at all?’ Bethanie jumped. The shopkeeper had an accent that matched neither his yogi shirt nor his tattoos: it was the same type of English the Queen spoke. What was it called? Received pronunciation.

‘Oh, no, I’m just… looking.’

‘Anything in particular?’

Bethanie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘That’s quite all right. Now, to me you look rather artistically minded.’ Did she? She was wearing denim shorts, battered Converse and a Black Lives Matter t-shirt, with her braids tied back. She wasn’t aware she had the words ‘I used to take costume construction as a bachelor’s degree’ tattooed on her face. ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m good at first impressions.’

‘Right.’

‘We have this scented candle, which never burns down and provides the nearest people with endless creative inspiration.’

‘Not really necessary at the moment.’

‘This book of Shakespeare plays, which shows you a different version of a different play each time you open it.’

‘Interesting.’ It was, actually: if she had been able to take her course into next year, it would have been a fantastic resource for her research.

‘Ah, and we have this.’ He held out a small tin of paints. It looked second hand—or third hand or fourth hand, with dents and lots of splash marks.

‘Will it show me my destiny?’ Bethanie was only half joking.

‘No, it will show you your unconscious.’

‘My what?’

‘Your unconscious. The part of your brain you’re not… conscious of.’

‘I know what—how does it work?’

He frowned at the label. Another tattoo peeked out of his collar: more symbols Bethanie had never seen before. ‘You paint whatever you’d like, anything at all. Then, when you’re finished, you’ll find… the completed piece might not be what you thought you were painting after all.’

‘Can you prove it?’

He smiled faintly. ‘It did come with some excellent pieces, obviously we can’t sell them if we want proof of the paints, so if you’ll excuse me a moment…’ He disappeared through a door behind the counter, returning a moment later with three A4-sized portraits, all framed in burnished silver. He turned one over and read off the back.

‘This one says… _I painted this at the white cliffs of Dover. Ended up portraying my childhood instead_.’

The picture in question was of a steep, craggy cliff face, over which a man dangled a small child. The detail was exquisite; Bethanie could see the terror on the child’s face.

Although she was not completely convinced about the paints’ magical properties, painting would give her something to do between obligatory solicitor’s visits and family visits and graveside visits. She handed over cash—her final twenty pound note—and used the change to purchase a small watercolour pad in the art shop down the road.

A year later, in a newly opened café-co-working-space-art-gallery two hundred miles from Southend, a young woman exhibited a collection of over twenty watercolours. Most customers were drawn to them immediately, only to recoil when they looked closely.

The first few portraits looked like _Hamlet_ and Anne Frank’s diary and the sort of footage on the news that made you turn over. Oxygen masks hung from gurneys; dozens of skulls lined hospital corridors; small children sat alone in the courtyards of bleak, square buildings. Aeroplanes crashed into garnet Ford Fiestas, each one the same 1990s model. Buildings burned and non-English words—experts would notice legal terminology in Latin—spiraled out of the plane engines and car exhausts. Once or twice, old ballgowns and costume jewellery would lie, torn and battered, amongst the debris.

As viewers browsed the exhibition, if they went in a clockwise direction, they’d notice that very gradually, the charcoal buildings and rusted gurneys began to fill with tulips and ice cream cones. Children were accompanied by parents, skulls filled up with lavender plants and cherry blossom. By two thirds of the way through, the Fiestas were whole again, smart and shiny. Planes flew overhead, dresses were restored to mannequins. Only a few stray oxygen masks peeked through plant pots, with the odd Latin phrase hidden in the car windows.

By the end portraits, each page was almost fully given over to flowers: too many to name, mostly invented, in colours one couldn’t find names for. If one looked carefully, it was possible to spot aeroplanes in leaves and oxygen masks in rose petals. Most people didn’t look that carefully.


	13. The Ambrosia Spa and Hotel (Death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rereading the 'Percy Jackson series' and this was partially inspired by the spa in 'The Sea of Monsters'. The other part of my inspiration was my almost overwhelming desire to go on holiday.

‘Tony,’ Beverley began. ‘I’ve been thinking, about the holiday…’

‘Mm?’ Tony glanced over his newspaper (or, as the daughter would call it, his toilet paper), faintly disgruntled at the interruption.

Beverley put the tea tray down and took a breath. ‘Well, I’ve looked at the figures, and I think we can afford two this year.’

‘Two?’ This had Tony’s attention. The last time his wife suggested two of anything it had been children, which backfired when they both turned out to be a lot like her mother and nothing like Tony’s friends.

‘Yes. And I was thinking, as well as Benidorm, we could try—this.’ Beverley produced a glossy brochure from her sewing basket and put it next to the tea tray.

‘“Reinvigorate your mind and body at the Ambrosia Spa and Hotel. Enjoy out of this world treatments, connect with your inner self and leave more in tune with your soul… No surgery, no fad diets, no timetable. We take your lead—because you know what’s right for you!” Beverley, why?’

‘Well, we go to Benidorm every year. And I love it, Tone, don’t get me wrong, but I thought it might be nice to try somewhere else too. Have a bit of an adventure.’

‘Adventure? I’m not sure how much adventure you get in a spa…’

‘Exotic smoothies. Seaweed wraps. Couple’s massages.’ Beverley’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. Tony felt his tea churn uncomfortably through his stomach.

‘It’s my sixty-fifth this year,’ Beverley reminded him. ‘Why not try something a bit different? Plus we can spend some quality time away from the hustle and bustle. Just the two of us.’

‘Are you sure we can afford Spain as well?’

‘Absolutely. We’ve already paid Andreas for the deposit on the apartment, haven’t we? And we know exactly what everything costs, thereabouts.’

‘What about the euro? The exchange rate could shift.’

‘You’ve said that every year of the past fifteen. We’ve always been fine. We can afford it, Tone, we’ve worked hard for this.’

Six months later, Tony was glad he had managed to persuade Beverley to do Benidorm before the spa. It relaxed him, for a start, and he rather felt that if the Ambrosia had those ridiculous add-on charges for dressing downs and paper slippers, he had the perfect excuse not to allow Beverley to indulge.

The location: a sparkling Mediterranean island further east than Tony had ever been, part of an archipelago Tony could not pronounce. He’d checked, and he was fairly sure there was a chance a dinghy full of Syrians would wash up on the beach if they weren’t careful.

‘If they do, Tone,’ Beverley had said with a roll of her eyes, ‘you needn’t worry yourself about rescuing them.’

Tony didn’t like to admit it, but the first few days, he was confused by near enough everything. Far less signage was in English that he was used to on holiday, with far fewer Brits. In fact, he had counted at least eight languages around the pool. Almost as many as you heard going to the shops back home. He had seen maybe three British families—again, about what you see back home. The majority of guests were from the Mediterranean or Arabian Peninsula. This was according to Beverley, who of course chatted to everyone she met the nail bar and the smoothie station and around the pool. There was even a young couple from Nigeria. Beverley told him off being surprised they had passports.

The spa itself, Tony had to admit, was beautiful. Set in hills overlooking an electric blue sea, it was all pale stone, Doric columns and white cotton hangings. The staff, mostly young women, wore hair pulled into buns and pale blue trousers and tunics that never rumpled. They were on hand everywhere: the pool, the sauna, the dining pavilion. None of the attendants pressured Tony into buying anything, which surprised him. They let him be with his pint and his book, asking only if he wanted another beer (he did). Maybe they had paid for everything as part of their package, or maybe they’d be slapped with a giant bill when they checked out.

As the fortnight wore on, Tony added to the lobster-esque suntan he had picked up in Spain, reading James Patterson thrillers and partaking in precisely one spa treatment every three days. Beverley, on the other hand, had two or three treatments each day. They weren’t an added cost, she assured him. Her hair became noticeably shinier, her nails neater; even her glasses looked cleaner and brighter than normal. And somehow, despite hearty dinners and a regular afternoon ice cream, she actually seemed to be losing weight.

‘Am I?’ She asked when Tony pointed out as they were getting ready for the evening. ‘You know I never weigh myself, Tone, that’s a one-way trip to misery.’ She adjusted her dress strap, which was slipping down in a way it hadn’t in Benidorm. ‘Do you know, I think it’s all the swimming. I think I’m toning up. Toning up, ha.’

Tony scowled. ‘I preferred when you looked normal.’ Beverley blinked. ‘Normal? Tony, I’ve used a couple of muscles and had a hair mask. I do look normal.’

On their final day at the spa, Tony and Beverley had a couple’s appointment with someone about lifestyle coaching. The term reminded Tony unpleasantly of that show Beverley and their daughter liked to watch, the one where gay blokes fixed people’s wardrobes. The attendant they met boasted a clipboard and teeth so white they actually made Tony wince.

‘Let’s see, you’ve been here… Two weeks?’ Beverley and Tony nodded. ‘And you’ve both done the sauna, the exfoliating facial, the couple’s massages—’

‘Twice,’ Beverley put in.

‘I can see you’ve really taken advantage of what’s on offer, ma’am! Hair treatments, hot stone massages, mani-pedi, Indian head massage, daily meditation with Pamela, yoga nidra… and you’ve taken advantage of the pool! Well, no wonder you’re glowing, ma’am. How did you enjoy the treatments?’

‘Oh, I loved them! Beverley replied. ‘I’m going to take up yoga when we get back, and my hair feels so much thicker. I hadn’t realised I was over conditioning it.’

‘Kayleigh does have a magic touch,’ the attendant smiled. ‘And you, sir… you’ve… been for no treatments by yourself.’

‘Well,’ Tony said defensively, ‘they’re not my thing.’

‘Improving your mind-body connection isn’t your thing.’ The attendant raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a shame. Ma’am, is that what you were hoping for?’

Beverley blinked several times. ‘No, to be honest, it isn’t.’

‘I understand.’ The attendant placed a reassuring hand on Beverley’s arm. ‘Sometimes they just don’t want to evolve.’

Tony realised with a jolt that they were talking about him. ‘Well, I don’t think—’

‘Sir, do you want to connect with your inner self?’

‘Well, I—’ Tony glanced at Beverley, heart stopping as he remembered how much she had been hoping to spend time together. ‘I suppose.’

‘In that case, sir, drink this.’ The attendant produced a tall, frosted glass out of nowhere. Its contents were pearlescent, almost glowing—perhaps an effect of the cold glass.

With another glance at Beverley, Tony sipped it cautiously. Paper straw. Ridiculous. The ocean would be fine with some plastic in it. The drink was tastier than he expected, like a very thin vanilla milkshake. To his surprise, he finished it a couple of gulps.

‘Now,’ the attendant said, ‘you should start feeling a lot more like yourself.’

The next day, Beverley went through airport security with a large suitcase, a carry-on bag and a fossil the size of a dinner plate.


	14. Changing Directions Part One (The High Priestess)

Freja didn’t mean to stop for ice cream. The plan was to walk until she could think of nothing but sore feet, walk a bit further, turn around and limp back to the hotel. She reckoned she could lose a good couple of hours, from the seafront at Las Ramblas all the way to—what was it called? She’d know when she saw it. She hadn’t factored in the sheer number of people flocking to Barcelona in July, nor the sheer lack of quality of her sandals. She made it forty minutes before seeing a bright pink awning and large umbrellas. The pavement sign showed a woman beaming at a Magnum. The sign above the awning said, Oasis Ice Cream Parlour. Freja’s feet said, sit down. Her stomach said, sorbet.

She walked right in.

The shop was gently air conditioned, with a cluster of metal tables and a counter the length of the back wall. A drinks cabinet sat next to a ceiling-height wallpaper photo of Audrey Hepburn eating an ice cream. Once the door swung closed, all Freja could hear was a hum from the appliances and the whirring of overhead fans. It was the sort of place that existed so deliberately on a blazing summer’s day in Catalonia that Freja felt that somehow, when the winter came, it must fold up into nothingness.

‘How can I help you?’ 

Standing behind the counter, tidying paper tubs, was a woman who looked nothing like an ice cream proprietor should look and everything like a sorceress should look. Firstly, she was tiny. Not ‘slim’ or ‘dancer’s body’. Her head only just reached over the glass countertop, and she looked like she could fit inside the counter, stretched out, with room to spare. An ebony plait, the sort that started the morning neat and spent the rest of the day rebelling, reached over her shoulder and past her waist. Enough curls had escaped to warrant application of their own postcode. Finally, she wore a colouring book of arcane, spidery tattoos. An eye of Horus on one thumb. An evil eye on the other thumb, which should’ve looked wonky but didn’t. Runes and symbols Freja didn’t recognise on her knuckles. Those twin snakes—Urnes snakes?—peeking out of a cotton shirt sleeve and down the inside of her forearm. Feathers and flowers and trees, all in black ink, took up her other arm. Her skin was the sort of dark amber that Freja and her friends could only achieve with cement-like layers of fake tan. She could have been twenty five with a lot of attitude or fifty five with a great skin care routine.

Freja felt strongly that this woman should be reading fortunes in a tent somewhere desert-like, or at a stove brewing a curse to ruin the life of an unfaithful corporate banker.

‘Oh, I…’ Freja took in the containers inside the counter. Lavender swirl. Brown sugar and cinnamon. Lemon curd. Ooh, pistachio. Butterscotch. Cherry and almond—gross. Whisky and vanilla—grosser. Chili chocolate. Blueberry and banana. Others she didn’t know: Cloud Nine: something pink and blue, like a sunset. Midnight Musings: coffee or chocolate, maybe, with dark chocolate swirls. Tropical island: something orange with sprinkles. The handwritten blackboard on the wall offered sundaes, banana splits, cones, tubs, oysters and wafer sandwiches. Toppings included hot fudge, hundreds and thousands, millions and trillions (that was a new one), cold fudge, five types of alcoholic liqueurs, marshmallows and, of course, hot chocolate. This was literal hot chocolate, the sign clarified, not drinking chocolate. Drinking chocolate was also available, with a kind of mini dessert option if one wanted to make an event of it.

Freja had seen many beautiful things in Barcelona so far, but the sheer number of options on the board was by far the most awe inspiring.

Another handwritten sign on the counter said ‘sample before you decide!’ with a little smiley face. ‘Could I please try—’ The door clanged as another family burst inside, multitudes of children clamoring in Dutch or German. ‘Actually, what would you recommend?’

‘For you? Maybe…’ The woman’s obsidian eyes flickered from Freja to the counter to the loud family back to Freja. She wore a name tag, fighting to get out from underneath the plait: _Alexandria, manager._ ‘If you have time to wait, I could make you a sundae?’

Freja’s stomach grumbled. ‘That—that would be lovely. Thank you.’

‘Any allergies or intolerances?’

‘It’s not an allergy per se, but walnuts make me vomit. And I really don’t like ginger.’

Alexandria smiled. ‘Grab a drink, have a seat and I’ll bring it over.’

Freja selected a lemon Fanta from the fridge, accepted a glass and retreated to the table nearest the window. The Dutch placed orders for cones and screwballs in the sorts of luminous colours Freja’s little brother, Felix, would covet and their mother would call ‘e numbers on cocaine.’ They took up most of the remaining tables, slurping Sprites and arguing over something Freja could tell was trivial without knowing a word of Dutch. Alexandria moved about behind the counter, assembling something into a tall glass.

By the time Alexandria brought the sundae over, the Dutch children had used the toilets, complained loudly—possibly of stomachaches, as their parents hurried them back into the toilets—and run outside to investigate something on the pavement. The adults sat back, chattering. As Alexandria returned to the counter, long skirt swishing, Freja noticed a pair of jeweled sandals (far better quality than the ones currently ripping her toes to shreds) and a calf wrapped with a flock of ravens. She wondered where Alexandria was from. Spain, maybe, or somewhere further south. Freja was awful with accents. She hid her own as much as possible.

Freja couldn’t remember the last time she had people watched—not that sitting in a crowded café had been an option until recently. It was almost as fun as admiring her sundae, which resembled a colour swatch. Dark blue and purple at the bottom. Pinks and yellows in the middle. It was topped with something white and fluffy, like spun marshmallows, except when she tried some, it tasted like white chocolate.

Alexandria began to tidy up as the Dutch family wandered out, replacing serviettes and removing glassware. A stack of change sat on the empty tables: enough in tips to buy an ice cream.

The shop felt cosier, somehow, now it was quiet again. Freja supposed that this was really the siesta: more customers would come in later on, when it cooled down. Only tourists were mad enough to step outside at one o’clock in the afternoon. Freja wondered how much money the parlour took each day just from sweaty holidaymakers seeking reprieve from the heat.

Alexandria moved a chair that backed onto Freja’s table; Freja pulled her own chair as far back as it could go.

‘You don’t like to take up space.’

Freja blinked. Didn’t she? Also, a small voice pointed out, she took up more space than this munchkin lady.

‘Your bag is in your lap even though there’s a chair to put it on. You hurried your order when you saw people come in.’

‘It’s because I’m British,’ Freja said automatically. ‘We’re used to queuing. Being at the front unsettles us.’ She tried a spoonful of yellow sorbet. It tasted like ripe lemons, just like the legendary lemonade her grandmother made. Almost bitter enough to hurt, but not quite. _This’ll put whiskers on your chin_ , Sigrid would say whenever she served it up. Freja heard a loud, brash laugh and, a moment later, realised she was the one who made it.

‘Something… tastes bad?’ Alexandria asked, eyebrows raised in that polite _are you feeling quite sane_ way.

‘No, no.’ Freja swallowed. ‘It’s fantastic. It’s just… I ran a half marathon last year. Didn’t eat junk food for six months in preparation. I assumed I do another this year, so I’ve been on a diet since Christmas and going to the gym four times a week. I can’t remember the last time I ate a sundae.’ Or the last time I ate something and enjoyed it, she added silently. Alexandria didn’t need to know that she ate most meals at a computer.

‘That is good for you.’ Freja got the impression that she meant it in the literal sense, _exercise is beneficial to you_ , not in the standard _oh, good for you_ sense.

‘Yeah. I suppose it is. It’s just… I did the half marathon through work, for the company’s chosen charity. And, um, before I came out here I was made redundant, so… no more half marathons.’

The flock of ravens rippled as Alexandria moved about. ‘You cannot do a marathon without the company?’

Freja had another spoonful of ice cream as she considered her answer. This one tasted a little bit like, oh, something she’d eaten as a child. She’d realise what in a minute. ‘I suppose I could. It’s just—God, this is embarrassing—my manager and I did it together, with a couple of other people from our team. And I thought, I don’t know, he was kind of a mentor to me. It felt like a social thing… and I don’t have many social things.’

‘Ah,’ Alexandria’s eyes glinted. ‘You like the boss?’

‘No! Not like that. Maybe a tiny bit of a crush. But not really properly. It’s just that I felt like we were a good team. And on Friday evening he sat me down with the director and told me that cost-cutting has to happen and targets need to be met and I should clear my desk as there’s no point in coming back after my holiday.’

Alexandria nodded, like, that’s a good reason to be laughing manically in an ice cream parlour. She produced a spray bottle from behind the counter and began wiping down tables.

‘It’s not just the marathon.’ Freja stirred a piece of ice cream not melted enough to eat. ‘I’ve worked there since I was twenty-one. They gave me a job straight out of uni and I’ve learnt so much. There’s a kind of training programme that I did really well on. When Corona hit, I worked from home with four other people in the house using the Internet and an appalling camera and loads of technical issues with my ancient laptop. Mandy went on maternity leave at the same time, so I covered her work because they changed their mind about hiring someone else during the crisis. I worked on Saturdays before, during and after Corona. Whenever we had appraisals I knew I’d really earnt every pay rise, and we only had them six months ago. And,’ Freja realised she was rambling but found she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—turn it off. ‘And the other day my cousin sent me a job advert that they put out the week before I was made redundant. It’s for my exact job, but a third better paid. Oh, and most of my friends are my colleagues, and only one of them messaged me back when I said I was leaving.’

Alexandria was scrubbing a piece of gum from a table, so Freja wasn’t sure she was really listening, but she looked up and met Freja’s eyes. ‘That is their loss.’

‘Thanks.’ Freja had another spoonful of sundae. ‘It’s just… I’ve been there four years, and it feels like it was a waste of time.’

Freja looked down at her glass. What was that she could taste? Definitely raspberries. It reminded her of the cocktail her dad bought her on her eighteenth. She’d never been able to recreate it at home. She should bring the rest of her family here. They were exploring the beach today—or exploring how many water sports her brothers could try without risking bankruptcy—and she felt suddenly bad that they hadn’t all discovered this place together. Even her I-don’t-do-sweet-foods mum would find something to enjoy.


	15. Changing Direction Part Two (The High Priestess)

As she ate, Freja alternately looked out the window and watched Alexandria clean. That smell, industrial kitchen cleaner, felt out of place, somehow. The real world felt further away than it had ten minutes ago, as though the Dutch family had taken the twenty first century away with them.

Freja wondered what Alexandria did when she wasn’t waging war on chewing gum. She didn’t look like someone who would take a trip to the cinema or the mall, not unless she was looking for supplies for potions, or food for her familiar. Freja couldn’t picture her using Instagram or maintaining a business Facebook page for the ice cream parlour.

‘I know I’m being awful on this holiday,’ Freja mused. ‘I mean, we’ve only been here three days, but still. My parents and I saved up so much for this. Our first post-Corona holiday. We all sat around, when lockdown first started. My mum had our nan stay with us because she’s got a heart thing, both my brothers and I live at home, and my brother’s boyfriend came to stay because his parents are fake Christian shitbags. And Liam’s never actually left. So the seven of us are living in a three-bedroom house except the third bedroom is actually a utility cupboard that we panic bought a sofa bed and heater for, so my nan could have her own room. My little brother and I share my room now, so Jude and Liam get some space. I spend most of my evenings playing League of Legends with half the family and gin rummy with the other half. I do not know why I’m telling you this.’

Alexandria smiled. ‘You sound like you have a nice family.’

‘Yeah. They’re all right, actually. Anyway, we sat around that first day and Jude insisted that we needed something to look forward to. He and Liam had to finish their masters degrees at home and both my parents were furloughed and Jude was adamant we make a plan for when this is over. My grandmother said “I’ve always wanted to see Gaudí’s buildings in person.” Jude was actually thinking that we should all go to the Scottish lochs, because that’s what we did as kids. But somehow it became a plan. Post-Corona, when it’s safe for all of us to travel, we’re going to Barcelona. 

‘Jude and Liam both graduated and joined a start-up delivering food to people who can’t get out, because they realised how hard it was to look after yourself when you’re housebound. I sold a bunch of things on eBay. Every penny after expenses went into a jar for Barcelona. It became a running gag, like, if we can just get through this, at the end there’ll be…’

‘An oasis?’ Alexandria suggested.

Freja smiled. ‘Yeah. Exactly. One more day of rationing toilet paper before my dad risks going to the shops. One more month of not replacing conditioner because who can see us, and anyway I want to save up for something nice to wear in Barcelona. We did condition our hair,’ Freja added hastily. ‘With olive oil.’

‘Works better than conditioner,’ Alexandria agreed.

‘It really does. And now we’re here, and it’s safe to breathe on people, and we’ve been looking forward to this for _years_ and I’m ruining it because I’m so preoccupied.’

‘What did your family say when you told them?’

‘I haven’t yet. I don’t know how to.’

‘You know they will be disappointed.’

‘I suppose. But… I think _I’m_ more disappointed. I thought I had a few more good years at this place, even with the economy. There was scope to climb the ladder, maybe move somewhere else to something with more responsibility if the opportunity came up. My results were the best of the team’s most of the time. And now I have to look for another job, in this climate, that pays as well as the last. And I couldn’t sleep last night even after a day of climbing the steps at Park Güell, so I looked up job vacancies and the market is not fantastic. And then I thought, do I even want to be in this industry? When I was little I wanted to work in costume design. Or textiles. That sort of thing.’

Freja looked down. ‘It’s just… it’s just embarrassing. I thought I was a valued, integral member of the company. And I’m not. And now I don’t know which direction to go in.’

She returned her ice cream. She was on the next layer now, something purple that was just melted enough to not hurt her teeth. The blueberry and banana ice cream, with a layer of millions and trillions. It reminded her of her background on her work computer desktop, a midnight sky with a blanket of stars, somewhere too empty for light pollution.

Freja wondered what her desk looked like now. Had anyone moved into it? If they were truly cost-cutting, they’d merge her role with Deepak’s role and have Anita take up some of the slack. That’s what Freja would do. The salary of the job ad flashed through her head like a slot machine jackpot. Six grand more a year for the same job. That was definitely Tony’s idea. The man could announce that complimentary tea and coffee now had to be paid for by a staff whip-round (suggested donation £3.50 a week) the same day as taking receipt of his new Jag and bragging about it. The number plate was supposed to say ‘director’, but everyone secretly thought it looked more like ‘dictator’. Freja wondered who else had been let go. Tim was famous for spending loo breaks on the phone to his mates, and everyone knew he kept Facebook messenger open while he was in meetings.

Freja sat up. Was this because she had taken time off when Felix had his appendix out? She’d spent the morning with her phone set to loud, because he’d woken up in the night with a monster stomachache and NHS 111 said to go to A&E—which terrified him more than the stomachache, because lockdown hadn’t long been eased. She’d gone home at lunchtime after Jude rang that he was going into surgery. It was her only unplanned time off in four years.

God, this ice cream was good. Was it laced with something? Had Freja’s taste buds been faulty until now? If the Oasis had a TripAdvisor listing, she would be writing an excellent review.

Wait. Was she let go because she told Tony that the employer had a responsibility to provide adequate equipment so they could work from home? He hadn’t liked that she said it in a Zoom call with all twelve staff listening, or that everyone immediately agreed. He got round it by eventually buying some cheap laptops in a clearance sale and then demanding them back at once they returned to the office, so he could resell them.

Or was it because he knew that she knew that he didn’t adhere to social distancing rules during lockdown? She had seen him when she was out walking with Felix. He was strolling along with a woman who was not the lady who popped in to say hello sometimes.

‘Excuse me,’ said a gently accented voice, ‘where did you get your skirt?’ Freja hadn’t noticed the door open. A woman about her age was looking down at Freja’s orange cotton skirt.

Freja looked down, hoping she hadn’t dropped ice cream on herself. ‘I made it.’ It had originally been a pair of curtains, which was not something she advertised.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I got fed up with none of my clothes having big enough pockets. And then I was reading about fast fashion, you know…’

The woman smiled politely, like she did not, in fact, know. ‘Do you… do you make them for your job? Can I buy one?’

‘Not—not usually, but… if you send me your measurements, I could make you one when I go back to England? I still have the fabric.’

‘Yes! Please. That would be fantastic. And maybe…’ she paused. ‘My sister would like this too. We are staying near Las Ramblas. Could we… could we meet you here again? Tomorrow afternoon? I will bring my tape measure.’

‘Of—of course. Wow. Thank you. Um, do you have WhatsApp? I’ll give you my phone number.’ Freja grabbed for a clean serviette, only to find Alexandria at her shoulder, holding a pen and a piece of torn-off receipt paper.

‘What do you charge?’ the woman asked.

‘Oh, I’m—’ Freja did some hasty mental calculations. The curtains had cost her parents about forty quid a decade ago; her sewing machine and threads were a long-ago gift from family. The work itself wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Less, if she had a decent podcast on while she worked. ‘Would… would thirty euros be all right? Give or take depending on your measurements?’

‘Thirty… for each skirt?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘That is very reasonable for a handmade skirt!’

When the woman had paid for her ice cream disappeared into the sunshine, having agreed a convenient time to meet, Freja sat back in her seat. She really hoped she had enough curtain left. Her own was a prototype, when you thought about it: she could improve upon it for her customers. Slightly different stitching, maybe reinforce the pockets. She had seen pictures online where people sewed custom labels into their garments, so everyone knew who had made it. What was sixty euros in pounds? Enough to invest in more fabric. Or—or maybe she could carry on with the upcycling thing. Her mum had a sack at home filled with Jude’s old shirts and some old duvet covers. She could think of half a dozen charity shops in her local town, filled with unwanted bits and pieces. She would definitely have to buy some sort of washing instruction labels. Maybe some business cards as well.

Freja realised the last of her sundae was melting and scooped up the last mouthful. If she lived to be a hundred, she didn’t think she would enjoy an ice cream more than this one. She stood up and got out her purse.

‘Could I get a coffee, please, Alexandria? But I just have to pop out—I saw a stationery shop down the street and I want to buy a sketchbook. I have some ideas I want to get down on paper.’

‘Of course.’ Alexandria met Freja’s eyes over the counter. ‘Don’t forget to charge for the postage.’


	16. Customer Enquiries Part One (The Emperor)

**From** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

 **To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

 **Subject** 75th Birthday Gift Enquiry

15th July, 10:02am.

Dear Bezzina’s Emporium,

My name is Mandy King, I was given your email address by a friend of a friend. I am looking for a gift for my mother’s seventy-fifth birthday, and I believe you may be able to help? My mother refuses to use her mobile phone and rarely bothers to pick up her landline. This has never been a problem until recently, as my father was far more telecoms minded. He passed away last winter, however, and we’re increasingly frustrated by my mother’s refusal to use technology, even when there’s an emergency. Do you have anything in your shop that might work as an alternative method of communication, preferably one that she can travel with?

I live in Glasgow so unfortunately cannot travel down to see your shop in person. I am of course happy to pay for express and tracked shipping for anything I decide on. If you’d prefer to speak to me in person, feel free to give me a call on 0141 9496 0213.

Thank you in advance.

Best wishes,

Mandy King

* * *

 **From** Church of Jesus ([admin@churchofjesus.co.uk](mailto:admin@churchofjesus.co.uk))

 **To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

 **Subject** Bezzina’s Emporium Visit by Jedidiah van Aarle

20th July, 9:41am.

Dear Sir/Madam,

My name is Katherine Beauregard, I am a member of the Essex branch of the Church of Jesus, a non-denominational church. I’m sure you’ve heard of us! It has come to our attention that your shop, Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities, trades sacrilegious, Satanic items that are dangerous to the general public. We want to let you know that we condemn your behaviour as devil worship and pray for both you and your misguided, mentally ill customers.

Our pastor, Jedidiah van Aarle, will visit your shop on Saturday 19th September to destroy offending texts and objects and exorcise both you and the building. Any customers who wish to repent their sins will of course be welcome to join in.

Have a wonderful day!

Yours faithfully,

Katherine Beauregard

General secretary, Church of Jesus Essex Branch

Our next service: [https://churchofjesus.co.uk/services](https://churchofjesus.co.uk/services%20/)

Watch our pastor live online: <https://facebook.com/churchofjesusuk>

* * *

**From** Chet Cooper ([chettman123@gmail.com](mailto:chettman123@gmail.com))

 **To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

 **Subject** ocoult gift request

21st July, 03:08am.

hi im looking for something to give my mate for his birthday. hes really into the ocoult and would love something to try to summon spirits, maybe a weeja board or something like that. he also collects skulls so anything with a skull would be cool. i live in south essex so can come in any time to view, i just wanted to email first because i’ve never bought a magical gift before and i’m not really into the ocoult or anything like that. if you need any more information you can give me a call on 01632 960223 or whats app me with any pictures.

thanks

chet

* * *

 **From** Timothy Briars ([t.briars@sky.com](mailto:t.briars@sky.com))

 **To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

 **Subject** Historical Memorabilia

23rd July, 07:27pm.

Dear Bezzina’s Emporium,

I am looking for a Confederate flag or Swastika for my historical reenactment society. Ideally, we would like several, as we are planning to make a documentary-drama with the help of a great number of our members.

If you could inform me what you have in stock and which, if any, magical properties remain on the items, I would greatly appreciate it. If no flags are available, we would be happy to consider any regalia or memorabilia. If nothing is available from that time frame, we’re also happy to consider anything made for or by the Ku Klux Klan, as our docu-drama has quite a wide scope. I’ve attached some photographs of our current stock so you can get an idea of how seriously we take reenactments.

Our budget is up to £2,000 including postage and packaging.

Regards,

Timothy Briars


	17. Customer Enquiries Part Two (The Emperor)

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

28th July, 8:03am.

Dear Mandy,

Thank you so much for your email and my sincerest apologies for the delayed response. I have only had email set up for a few months and am still learning how to use it.

I believe we have some items that may work for your mother. I have attached photographs of each item.

The first is a set of magical notebooks, in which the owners can write messages on one page, and have the message appear in the corresponding notebook. Any pen or pencil ink will work. They retail at £40 plus postage.

The second is a set of pocket mirrors—in Liberty print designs, I believe—into which you can directly see and hear the people in the other mirrors. They come in a set of three, so may be useful to your whole family? We’ve had them in the shop for some time as video messaging renders them a little obsolete, but that may appeal to your mother? They are priced at £85.

Finally, I have two tin cans (salvaged, I am told, from 1940s London) into which one can speak and hear the person who is holding up the other tin can. Although they don’t sound exciting, you can see from the photograph that they have been painted quite exquisitely. The tins are priced at £40.

Don’t hesitate to ask if you require any more information. I look forward to hearing from you!

Kindest regards,

Ernest Bezzina

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Church of Jesus ([admin@churchofjesus.co.uk](mailto:admin@churchofjesus.co.uk))

28th July, 8:25am.

Dear Ms Beauregard,

Thank you for contacting Bezzina’s. I have, in fact, heard of the Church of Jesus. I struggle to see what Jesus would support about a group that campaigns for the death penalty for women who choose to undergo abortions, promotes gay conversion therapy, and spends thousands of pounds of donation money on Facebook advertising claiming that coronavirus was sent from God to punish sinners. It’s been a while since I read the Bible back-to-back, though. Do let me know at which point Jesus specifies the above activities.

Thank you for your concern about the state of my eternal soul, but I am not remotely worried it, nor about the souls of my customers. This is predominantly because I’ve seen far too much magic and suffering in the world to subscribe to the existence of a monothetic deity who is all-powerful and all loving but could not bring itself to stop, say, so-called religious leaders who use fear to build a cult. Another, lesser, reason is that I had a quick look at your website and according to a video posted by Mr van Aarle just a few weeks ago, the world is scheduled to end at some point in the next eighteen months. If we’re all going to shuffle off our mortal perches before the next election, then I really see no need to worry about the minutiae of what happens to my soul—especially as the Church of Jesus is very clear about what happens to LGBT men such as myself who have chosen to embrace our lifestyle rather than submit to ‘therapy’.

On 19th September this year I will be trading as usual and Mr van Aarle is welcome to visit to look around the shop. I must warn you, however, that the sheer number of magical objects present might make attempting an exorcism rather like wearing platform heels on cobblestones after consuming half a bottle of Smirnoff. I’m sure Mr van Aarle has no experience in such things, of course.

Have a nice day.

Best wishes,

Ernest Bezzina

* * *

**From** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

**To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

28th July, 8:39am.

Hello Ernest,

Thank you for getting back to me. I love the descriptions of all your items but I cannot view any images?

Best wishes,

Mandy

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Chet Cooper ([chettman123@gmail.com](mailto:chettman123@gmail.com))

28th July, 8:48am.

Dear Chet,

Thank you for your enquiry. We do have a couple of Ouija boards and some skulls in stock. We are open every day except Sunday from 8am to 6pm (we close at 1pm on Wednesday and open until 8pm on Saturday).

I look forward to seeing you! Please don’t hesitate to ask if you have any more questions.

Best wishes,

Ernest Bezzina

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

28th July, 8:56am.

Dear Mandy,

I do apologise! I believe I have now attached all the images. Technology, eh…

Best wishes,

Ernest

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Timothy Briars ([t.briars@sky.com](mailto:t.briars@sky.com))

28th July, 9:15am.

Dear Mr Briars,

You are not looking for Confederate or Nazi items for educational purposes but to take them to the next Black Lives Matter march in London. I know this partly because those of us in the antiques trade stay in touch via a newsletter and partly, well, because I am not an idiot.

I sincerely hope that one day you learn to escape the cloud of ignorance and racism that currently engulfs you, and realise that the world is a much nicer place when you don’t think that most of the people in it are inherently inferior to you.

Warmest regards,

Ernest Bezzina

PS I’m taking it as a good sign that you came to my shop at all. If you’ve done your research, which I imagine you will have done as the historical and/or magical artefact community is fairly niche, you’ll know that Bezzina’s Emporium was founded by an immigrant and is now run by a yoga enthusiast who was once interviewed for a documentary about his LGBT rights activism in the Essex and the South East. If you’re as bigoted as your enquiry suggests, I don’t imagine you love that last sentence. So for you to willingly consider shopping at my establishment, you must be finding it rather difficult to procure the items you require. I take that as an encouraging sign that the remaining artefacts from those eras of history have been placed into a museum as tools for teaching people how not to end up like you.

* * *

**From** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

**To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

30th July, 3:05pm.

Hi Ernest,

Thank you for those lovely options. I have shown them to my family and we would like to choose the set of three compact mirrors, with the Liberty print design. We think they are just what Mum would use, and they’ll go fabulously with the silk scarf we’ve bought her!

Please let me know your bank details at your earliest convenience and I will pay straight away. My address is:

Mandy King, 21 Nith Street, Glasgow, G1 2EG.

Best wishes,

Mandy

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Mandy King ([mandyk1968@gmail.com](mailto:mandyk1968@gmail.com))

31st July, 9:02am.

Dear Mandy,

I’m so pleased you like them! I’ve attached an itemised invoice with my bank details, due in seven days. As soon as the invoice is paid, I’ll get them sent up with the Royal Mail Tracked & Signed option.

Best wishes,

Ernest

* * *

**From** Church of Jesus ([admin@churchofjesus.co.uk](mailto:admin@churchofjesus.co.uk))

**To** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

31st July, 9:34am.

Dear Mr. Bezzina,

Mr van Aarle will visit your shop on Saturday 19th September as planned, and he will likely bring several assistants and possibly a film crew.

On a personal note, I’ll be praying for you.

Best wishes,

Katherine Beauregard

General secretary, Church of Jesus Essex Branch

Our next service: [https://churchofjesus.co.uk/services](https://churchofjesus.co.uk/services%20/)

Watch our pastor live online: <https://facebook.com/churchofjesusuk>

* * *

**From** Ernest Bezzina ([bezzinasemporium@outlook.com](mailto:bezzinasemporium@outlook.com))

**To** Church of Jesus ([admin@churchofjesus.co.uk](mailto:admin@churchofjesus.co.uk))

Dear Ms Beauregard,

I very much appreciate your prayers; as my yoga teacher says, we can all use some ‘good vibes’ these days. I will burn some healing herbs for you.

Kindest regards,

Ernest


	18. Decisions, Decisions (The Chariot)

In January, Marnie Doyle emerged from New Year celebrations with a headache and a bad mood. Her girlfriend had gone off with a past boyfriend, at Marnie’s New Year party.

You still have a key to her flat, a voice whispered in Marnie’s head. Throw out all her stuff. Nick the change she keeps in that jar. Go for that fancy plate while you’re at it. It would make a bit on eBay.

Nah, another voice whispered. That’ll just prolong the agony. Put the keys through the letterbox, delete her phone number and take advantage of those new year offers to learn yoga.

The voices, Marnie would have been interested to know, were not the musings of her subconscious. They were an angel and a demon, who had a bet running over could convert more souls. To keep eternity interesting, they occasionally targeted the same person.

Marnie gave back the key, but only after accidentally-on-purpose breaking the fancy plate. The angel and the demon looked at each other with renewed interest.

In March, Marnie found fifty pounds in cash, dropped in the street. She pocketed it. The demon smirked.

Two weeks later, Marnie used the money to help pay for scheduled surgery on her cat. The angel smiled benevolently in the demon’s general direction.

In May, Marnie reported a colleague who had been stealing from the company accounts, even after he offered to split the substantial funds if she kept quiet.

In June, Marnie slept with her boss and suggested, for the ears of the boss, the angel and the demon exclusively, that she be considered for promotion lest the boss’s husband found out.

‘Interesting work,’ said the angel, with no small level of respect. ‘You really got that ruthless streak to come out.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ the demon said with surprise. ‘That was all her. You’ve reminded me, though, nice job with the accounts.’

‘I just watched,’ the angel replied.

In July, Marnie started two direct debits: one for the Royal Horticultural Society, and one for the Stephen Lawrence Trust. The demon glanced at the angel, who shrugged.

In August, Marnie refused to swap seats on an aeroplane to Mallorca so a nervous flyer could sit with his mother. When the child vomited over her, Marnie gave the mother her soiled cardigan.

The angel gave the demon a thumbs up, with an obligatory eye roll, but the demon waved him off.

In September, when her flight home was postponed due to bad weather, Marnie spent the extra day spending five hundred pounds at local shops, then wrote glowing reviews for all of them. When she went back to her hotel, she threatened to sue the people staying in the room next door to hers for snoring too loudly.

In October, Marnie’s estranged older sister, Claire, phoned. ‘We should do lunch.’ Marnie agreed. By the end of the meal, the sisters’ hatchet was buried. Marnie spent a day with Claire’s teenage children, showing them how to make sticky toffee and chocolate cake, and offering her niece sage advice. Apparently, slashing the tyres of her ex-boyfriend’s very expensive car was not the correct way for her niece to recover from a revenge porn ordeal, but the idea made them both feel better.

The angel and the demon looked at each other, eyebrows raised. ‘Did you…’

‘Nope. Did you…’

‘Not at all.’

In early December, Marnie’s ex-girlfriend came round to grovel. Marnie made her cup of tea, wished her well and sent her on her way. A day later, the girlfriend discovered that her purse had been emptied of cash and replaced with a note: _you owed me for those Coldplay tickets._

At Christmas, Marnie adopted a second cat and spent the holiday with her Claire in her chocolate box village. They planned a camping trip for spring and played eight rounds of Pictionary. When the ex-girlfriend texted, she just replied with ‘happy Christmas’ and a tree emoji. She donated a large sum of money to the Trussell Trust and paid for her mother’s gravestone to be cleaned.

On her way out of the corner shop on Boxing Day afternoon, Marnie spotted a group of teens famous on the local Facebook groups for petty theft and general disturbance of the peace. They were congregating messily, next to a souped-up hatchback, obnoxious music blaring from open doors. As she left the shop, Marnie recognised the loudest one: her niece’s ex-boyfriend.

It was growing dark and the teens were busy trying to light a spliff out of view of passing traffic, so Marnie ducked around the car and sliced all four tyres using the infinitely handy camping knife her Claire gave her for Christmas. Then, for good measure, she scratched ‘THIS CAR IS OWNED BY A SEXUAL ABUSER’ on the side and helped herself to the weed and cash in the footwell. The boyfriend, bless him, didn’t notice until he tried to drive away three hours later, by which point it was raining.

‘Hm.’ the demon looked at Marnie, and then at the angel. ‘Tie?’

‘Tie,’ the angel agreed. ‘Tell you what, though. If that’s what happens when no one interferes with humans…’

‘It rather seems that they have rather less need of us than we thought,’ the demon agreed. ‘Never mentioned this to anyone in charge?’

‘Agreed,’ the angel said. They shook hands and continued on with eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised halfway through writing this that it reads as Good Omens fanfiction.
> 
> (You're welcome.)


	19. Dredged (The Fool)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note this story contains themes of depression and suicide; please consume responsibly.

Peridot was not expecting to pull a mermaid from the water. For starters, the water itself was a muddy estuary, a busy shipping lane filled with cargo boats and windsurfers and unexploded World War II detritus. Although there was plenty of animal life to be found beneath rocks and through binoculars, even the most ardent naturalists would hesitate before proclaiming the area magical. For finishers, Peridot was contemplating throwing herself _into_ the water. Well, not throwing. That was a bit dramatic, a bit deliberate. It was more that she stood on the end of a concrete jetty as the tide came in and wondered what would happen if she went for a swim and stopped inhaling. Months later, a therapist would gently categorise this behaviour as suicidal, but at the time Peridot considered it a mental exercise, like the crossword. Regardless, she wasn’t expecting the mermaid.

Nor was the mermaid expecting her.

It would later occur to Peridot that if she hadn’t been so distracted, she might have noticed a shadow beneath the greyish waves. She might have thought it a fish or whale caught up in the tide—that was a thing, right—and called over one of the many beachgoers enjoying a sunny bank holiday weekend. She could have left someone else to deal with… her. She might have spent the rest of her life blissfully ignorant of the existence of… them.

Instead, a girl’s head and torso burst from the water like a geyser, grasping for the jetty and choking for air.

Before Peridot’s brain could finish thinking _shit, someone is actually drowning_ , she had seized the girl’s arms, dragging her up onto the jetty like she was hauling shopping out of the boot of a car. By the time her brain caught up, her nose was clogged with salt water, her shorts were drenched and the girl—well, woman, maybe in her early twenties, like Peridot—was sprawled on the concrete, wheezing. Peridot realised she had collapsed on the jetty too, her legs scratched and glasses splattered. She took them off, did a bad job of cleaning them on her top, put them back on and noticed two things. One, her neck was exposed, revealing a tattoo of fish gills. Two, she was wearing absolutely no clothing.

‘Are you—are you hurt?’ Peridot asked. The girl blinked at her. What did medical shock look like? She was shivering badly, so Peridot shrugged off her overshirt—she’d brought one ‘just in case’, although had expected that just in case to pertain to the weather—and draped it over her shoulders. ‘You should go to the coastguard or something. I think there’s an ambulance up the beach. You just nearly drowned. Come on.’

The girl blinked again, gazing out at the estuary and back to Peridot. Maybe she had been on a booze cruise from London and fallen overboard. Maybe she’d been walking out on the mudflats at low tide and been caught off guard as the water surged back towards the beach. Tourists.

‘Where… where am I?’ her voice was heavily accented, although Peridot couldn’t place it.

‘Best seaside town in England. Can you walk?’

The girl stared down at her legs. She prodded one her knees, then wriggled her toes. She stretched out her legs and poked them some more, inspecting them carefully, then turned her attention to—

Peridot realised she’d need more than a shirt to cover up.

‘Excuse me!’ she called to a family halfway back down the jetty, ‘this lady’s just lost her bikini bottoms in the water! Would you mind please loaning her a t-shirt or something?’

God bless middle aged gentlemen named Oscar. After hurrying to the beach and back to fetch a large towel, Oscar looked for the missing bikini bottoms and ascertained that the girl, now fumbling with the buttons on Peridot’s shirt, was very lucky not to have drowned.

‘Rip tides are dangerous,’ he said seriously. ‘You should never swim wearing fashion swimwear, either. It’s too flimsy for actual movement. You want one of these racerback swimsuits like Pat’s got—' a small child waved cheerily from a safe distance—‘much safer for proper exercise. Now, I insist on accompanying you to the paramedics. I think you should make sure all the water’s out of your lungs, miss.’

The girl blinked at him. She had put the towel over her legs but hadn’t attempted to move. ‘I think I am fine. Thank you. I am looking for… the government.’

‘The government?’ Oscar laughed. ‘Where exactly are you from?’

She blinked again. ‘A long way away.’

Oscar looked at Peridot. ‘Is she quite all right?’

‘I think she needs a drink of water.’ Peridot tugged on the girl’s arm. ‘Can you stand?’

It took her a moment; her legs were like a newborn fawn’s. Between trying to keep the towel steady and helping her to her feet, Peridot and Oscar both got a considerable eyeful of anatomy that neither had quite prepared for when they left the house.

Towel firmly knotted, Peridot took one arm, Oscar the other, and they led the girl down the jetty. ‘What’s your name?’ Peridot asked as they shuffled along.

‘Calypso.’

Peridot thought it sounded bourgie, even by her own standards, but Oscar chatted happily about calypso music as he led them down the beach to an ambulance. Calypso seemed to revive a little as they walked. She didn’t have any shoes on, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. She was wearing a pretty silver nail polish on her toes, glittering like scales.

Wait.

Those _were_ scales.

When they reached the ambulance station and a caught the attention of a paramedic, Calypso adjusted Peridot’s shirt to hide the gills tattoo on her neck.

Wait.

Those _were_ gills.

‘Where exactly are you from?’ Peridot murmured as the paramedic checked blood pressure and concussion before proclaiming her perfectly healthy.

‘The bottom of the ocean,’ Calypso replied. ‘I’m here to save the world.’


	20. Healing Tea (The Tower)

‘You want… What?’

Rilla hadn’t expected to need to repeat herself. ‘A voodoo doll, several pins, something to stop nightmares in children, something to get rid of insomnia in adults and something that allows you to put curses on other people. Oh, and maybe some sort of spell to cause someone to come out in hives. That ashtray causes people to choke on the cigarette they’re smoking? I’ll take it.’ Rilla realised that the ‘artefacts’ part of the name of Bezzina’s Emporium of Magical Artefacts and Antiquities was quite a bit more significant than she’d assumed. ‘Do these pillowcases really cause the person sleeping to dream about whatever they feel most guilty about? I’ll take them too.’

‘Right. Bear with me a minute.’ The teenage shop assistant disappeared into the back room, brocade dress glinting slightly in the afternoon light, ducking her head to avoid the doorframe. ‘Soph! Ernest!’

Rilla Singh wasn’t usually one to believe in magic. She wasn’t usually one to throw lamps, eat black forest gateaux at three o’clock in the morning or set fire to her husband’s clothes, either, but recently she had done all of those things quite a lot. Desperate times, as her mother used to say, called for desperate measures and occasionally a daytime gin and tonic.

Thus, Rilla found herself leaving her children with her sister for the day, downing a pre-mixed G&T from a corner shop and taking the train to a shabby antiques shop in the arse end of Essex, with three hundred pounds and a shopping list in her handbag.

A moment later, the assistant reappeared with an older gentleman wearing the most awful hand tattoos, and another teenage girl wearing the most awful cardigan.

‘Ernest Bezzina, ma’am.’ The older man shook her hand. ‘Ariel says you’re after voodoo. I’m afraid we only supply that to vetted customers. Besides, voodoo dolls aren’t that prominent in either Louisiana or Haitian voodoo. Nor are the dolls you’re thinking of always used for harm. We tend to call them poppets. Bit of a misconception, really, voodoo dolls. Blame Hollywood.’

‘I can show you our collection of poppets?’ Cardigan Girl offered Rilla a tiny cloth person. ‘This one helps with sleep. A lady in Shropshire makes them, they’re brilliant. She also does charm bags. That’s all we’ve really got in terms of purpose-built magical items, I’m afraid. Halloween wiped us out of spell kits, skulls, that sort of thing.’

‘May I ask,’ Ernest said, as Rilla frowned at the little figurine, ‘why you’re looking for so many objects that can be so easily weaponised?’

‘I need to either kill my husband or make him wish he was dead.’

There was a brief beat of silence.

‘We hear quite a lot of that,’ Ernest said. ‘We have a policy to never sell anything potentially harmful until we know why it’s required. You should know we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone we consider dangerous. I must also tell you that we believe if we believe there to be a real risk of terrorism, we’re obliged to inform the relevant authorities.’

‘We’re not just saying that because you’re South Asian,’ Cardigan Girl said quickly. ‘We tell everyone who asks for anything dangerous, like Ernest said. We’ve had a bit of a problem with white supremacists lately. Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry—it’s honestly not a race thing, I’m so sorry you thought that—’

‘No, no, that’s not why—I’m crying because my husband has—has —’

The taller girl, Ariel, produced an armchair from somewhere in the depths of the shop, ushering Rilla into it and patting her arm tentatively. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’m going to get you a cup of tea.’

‘Oh, um, yes, please.’

‘We’ll get biscuits too. Any allergies?’

‘Eggs.’

‘Okay, no problem.’ Both girls disappeared into the back rooms, and Rilla heard Ariel hiss, ‘I can’t believe you called her a terrorist! We were just talking about microaggressions!’

‘I didn’t think you thought I was terrorist.’ Rilla said after a minute. She accepted the box of tissues Ernest was offering and dabbed her eyes. ‘I know I look like a crazy lady, though.’ She pulled at a thread on her jumper, which hadn’t been washed for several days. One of her daughters had sneezed on it the other day, but Rilla thought it snot-free.

It was not.

‘They’re both paranoid,’ Ernest replied. ‘About terrorism and about bigotry, I mean. We sell all sorts in here, and we attract all sorts. Neo-Nazis or eugenicists after paraphernalia, men who hit their wives looking for something to make them feel less guilty. We once had a middle-aged white gentleman—built like a tank, no neck to speak of, you know the type—come in and ask for a transgender pride flag. Sophey—the small one—gave him the third degree. Thought he wanted to do some sort of ritualistic burning. We didn’t have any flags—that design isn’t really old enough to be considered antique, but we get the odd bit of magical pride flotsam. Anyway, the customer started looking at the clothing, asking what was magical about each of the dresses. It took ten minutes of incredibly intrusive questioning before Sophey realised that the customer in fact wished to _wear_ one of the dresses. She was so mortified that she paid for the dress herself and gave the lady a good website for handmade pride flags.’

‘Did he—she—sue for harassment?’

‘No, actually, she’s still a customer. Came out to her family recently and tells us she’s doing really well. Buys the odd bit of jewellery and some gifts here and there.’

‘That’s nice.’ Rilla gazed at display of magical kitchen goods. Who needed a Georgian soap dish that cleaned itself? Just bloody wash your soap dish. ‘I’m here because two weeks ago my husband was arrested for possession of child pornography.’

Ernest winced. ‘Well, I’d have sent my husband to hell for the same thing. Ah, thank you, Ariel.’ The girls were back with a tea tray, a small table and some chairs. How big was the back room? Sophey poured tea and Ariel offered Rilla a biscuit. She nibbled it tentatively. It was the first thing she had eaten in weeks that didn’t taste of cardboard.

‘Vegan and homemade,’ Ernest said proudly. ‘I’m trying to bake more and eat animal products less. So far I’ve eaten more sugar. I’m sorry, you were talking about your husband.’

Was she?

‘There’s not much else to say, other than my life is over.’ Before she knew it, the biscuit was gone and Rilla had poured out everything that she could remember from the last fortnight.

‘So now I’m here,’ she finished, ‘because he’s ruined our lives. My children are having screaming nightmares. I’m eating entire celebration cakes in the wee small hours. My neighbours won’t talk to me. It’s… everything we built is…’ _Over. Evil. Based on a lie._

Rilla needed more tea. Before she could reach for the teapot, she realised someone had poured one.

The three of them were silent for a minute, each of them cradling their cups.

‘If you’ll excuse the presumption,’ Ariel said eventually, ‘I’m not sure cursing your husband is the way to go. I get it,’ she added quickly, ‘I really do. I once almost… it might not help in the long run, is all I’m saying.’

‘But I’m sure we have some bits and pieces that will help you and your children sleep,’ Sophey put in. She set down her teacup and stood up, clumpy Doctor Martens bumping the chair.

‘We could start with those crystals,’ Ariel said. ‘Some of them are supposed to channel good energy, keep bad energy away, that sort of thing.’ She pulled a lanyard full of keys from her neck and opened a small cabinet full of stones and amulets. ‘Soph, what happened to that amethyst necklace?’

‘Sold it to the lady with the Pomeranians. Maybe—maybe try the candle holder? I think Domenica mentioned there are healing properties in those stones. We could add it to that Victorian candle we got from Gandalf?’

‘Gandalf?’ Rilla asked.

Ariel and Sophey grinned at each other.

‘Gandalf is our nickname for one of our best antiques suppliers.’ Ernest murmured. ‘He’s rather tall and eccentric, you know, and, well, he’s probably old enough to remember when half of his merchandise was made.’

As they spoke, the girls moved around the shop, hands wandering toward different, random, objects. They should have looked rather comical; Sophey was a natural addition to a shop like this: her clothes had clearly been pulled from charity shops, her skin was sallow and eyes sunken, like she never saw enough light, and she needed a stool to reach most of what she was looking for. Ariel looked more like a creature of modern society: her pixie crop was neatly trimmed and adorned with a silver slide, her dress carefully pressed and her eyeliner meticulous around her large blue eyes.

‘Here you go,’ Sophey said eventually. They’d put a dozen items on the table, all various sizes and shapes. ‘How’d we do, Ernest?’

‘The scarf that changes colour depending on your loved ones’ moods,’ Ernest said. ‘Perfect for any parent. Although it could get a little messy, ma’am, given your relationship with your husband?’

‘We’re estranged,’ Rilla said quickly. ‘No love left. Except… maybe I’ll pass on it anyway.’

She inspected the collection in front of her, picking things up and reading every handwritten label. ‘I’ll take all of it.’

The girls beamed and made for the till. Ernest smiled slightly, as though they had passed a test. Maybe they had. Maybe there was a checklist in the shop training manual for ‘how to deal with weepy ladies.’

‘Just so I know,’ Rilla said as she handed over her money. ‘Which of these goods are actively imbued with magic? So I know not to leave them around when the family comes over for Diwali.’

‘Let’s see…’ Ernest peered over her things. ‘The pillowcases and ashtray you’ve looked over. The tea, the tarot deck, the crystals, the candle and the candle holder. Absolutely none of those.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. The tea is just tea. No added funky leaf ingredients either. Tarot cards are just tarot cards, too. You could use them to try communicating with _out there_ , I suppose. But personally I use them to communicate with in here.’ He tapped his chest lightly.

‘Like a mirror,’ Ariel said helpfully. ‘Or a therapy session.’

‘Which you should definitely consider,’ Ernest added. ‘Now, the crystals and the candle: some say they are imbued with magic from the start, others that you must cast some sort of spell to channel the energy through them. You’d have to ask a witch for the particulars, though. I’ll include Domenica’s card, she made most of the crystal pieces.’ He eyed the goods again. ‘Personally, I think it’s about intention there, too. They may not stop your insomnia or your children’s nightmares, but if you make a ritual out of it: clear the house of objects that remind you of your trauma and put them away for when you’re ready to deal with them, make a bedtime routine, that sort of thing, then you’re likely to find it’s your mindset that’s changed.’

‘I understand. What about the silver bangle? The label says it gives clarity.’

‘Ah yes, that one’s definitely magic. Don’t ask me how, but whenever one puts it on, one’s innermost thoughts and feelings are suddenly completely obvious. Maybe not pleasant in the moment, but I’ve found it’s very helpful in the long run to confront one’s feelings head on.’

‘In that case…’ Rilla gathered up her belongings, sliding the bangle straight onto her wrist. ‘Thank you for the tea and biscuits. I’ll let you know how we get on.’

Once the door was closed, Ernest looked at his employees. ‘Cast a healing charm for the poor woman and her family?’

‘Wouldn’t hurt,’ Sophey agreed. ‘Good for you advocating the peaceful route, Ariel.’

‘Don’t get too comfortable. I’m going to curse the fuckers who made those images.’

Sophey reached up and patted Ariel’s shoulder. ‘I knew you hadn’t lost it. Give me a minute and I’ll give you a hand.’


	21. Life is But a Dream for the Dead (The Lovers)

Once upon a time there was a girl who haunted dreams. Well. They were usually nightmares by the time she was done with them. She was dead, but when you’re dealing with the subconscious that is neither here nor there.

Around the same time, there was a boy who haunted daydreams. Unlike the girl, he didn’t scare his audience into waking up; he pulled them into a stupor so enticing they frequently forgot to wake at all. He was also dead.

They met for the first time on a crossroads. Their victim, sorry, chosen audience, was a teenage boy. They had both been teenagers, briefly. The boy’s dream merged into a daydream merged into a dream, as they often can when one is woken in the night by a passing car or suchlike.

‘Would you like to get coffee?’ she asked. He was cute, in a dead sort of way.

‘Sure.’ She was cute, in a dead sort of way.

Coffee in the afterlife isn’t really the same as it is in life, so they visited a coffee shop and used their combined psychic weight to knock several jars from their shelves.

They were a team after that, mostly. One in during the day, one in during the night. Extra fun with daytime naps and that snuggly not-quite-conscious state. Most people don’t remember their dreams, and fewer still like to admit to the contents of their daydreams. Both are excellent playgrounds for bored spirits. Both whisper, _you are not completely happy on a fundamental level_.

Universal meditation practice, both ghosts liked to say, would put them out of a job.

Several years into their lucrative partnership, the ghosts encountered a very elderly woman. Neither of them had made it to thirty in life, so they both envied this lady’s aching bones and deteriorating mind.

_Oh, do you, really?_ she asked them. Both ghosts paused.

‘Did you say that?’

‘No. Did you?’

‘Nuh-uh.’

_What are you doing, anyway?_ the elderly woman continued. _Why are you nosing at the inner workings of my brain? Don’t you have your own?_

‘Well, now—’

_It’s because the half-asleep musings of a nonagenarian give you a taste of what you might have enjoyed, had you both lived. Now leave me alone to my memories or I’ll relive my time in Red Cross. I was at Srebrenica, you know._

They knew.

They looked at each other.

‘It’s possible the living are haunting us,’ he said tentatively.

‘I suppose it is, now I think about it. Bit obvious, really.’

‘What… what now? Do we move on?’

They were silent for several minutes, or possibly several years.

‘We could move on to haunting buildings,’ the girl suggested. ‘Set up shop somewhere permanent.’

‘Not a graveyard. Not a hotel. Too cliché.’

‘Agreed. What about… ooh, how about a school?’

‘All the clocks we can stop? The snatched sleep and endless fourth period daydreaming? You’re on.’

Twenty years later, the most haunted and least coveted secondary school in a four-county diameter experienced an unusual phenomenon. Written across the front of the main building in whiteboard marker were the words THANK YOU FOR THE FUN TIMEZ. WE’RE OFF TO GRADUATE.

The more superstitious of the school population exhaled loudly and with great relief.

‘I _knew_ something was up,’ the deputy head teacher said to the receptionist. ‘Thirty years I’ve been here. Started off in the art department, back when we had an art department. Brilliant school back then. Proper centre of learning excellence. Then one spring term it just…’

‘Went wrong,’ the receptionist said helpfully. They’d seen the weird shit students carved into tables during fourth period. Every classroom in the school went through three sets of tables every year. The receptionist liked to tell out of town friends that if you stood outside the Religious Studies classroom on a Monday morning and listened very carefully, you could hear a girl laughing. Brandie Atkins, who was now training to be a nurse, used to swear she could hear the laughter merge into a voice hissing, _that is not what happens_. And of course, there was the incident with the netball courts. No one ever figured out how the net posts bent themselves into the words _No one uses Pythagoras in real life_ but it did give the kids a laugh… and made maths teachers’ lives a little harder.

After the whiteboard marker event, the school gradually lost its reputation for hauntings, although the clocks never worked again.

By the time it had regained a reputation for academic excellence, two students, infamous in the local area, enrolled for their secondary schooling. Even aged eleven they had form for small to medium acts of party-throwing, larceny and racketeering. Each had heard of the other, vaguely; the town wasn’t huge and their parents frequented the same Thursday night salsa class. By eighteen, they were known by the police in four counties for being the go-to perpetrators of anything one might consider ‘illegal but in the name of good fun.’

By the time they were thirty-two, they had visited twenty-six countries and thrown a wedding reception that made the local news for all the best reasons.

‘It’s so strange,’ she said as they gave a joint speech. ‘We both felt we’d met before, somehow, even though we’d never seen each other until the first day of year seven.’

‘Things slotted into place somehow,’ he added. ‘I feel more alive with you.’

‘And I with you. Shall we see what happens when we cut the cake using a chainsaw? I’ve always wanted to try that.’

They lived very happily, and quite loudly, ever after. Well. Until she died of cancer in her late eighties and he of pneumonia in his slightly later eighties.

When they met in the afterlife, she said, ‘shall we haunt the eff out of all our children? I’ve always wanted to try that.’

‘First person to make one of them cry wins?’

‘Deal.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it, I finally managed to combine my love for My Chemical Romance and The Raven Cycle.


	22. Second Thoughts (Temperance)

‘In conclusion… what should I do?’ Ava put her fancy drink back on its tiny paper mat, winced at the moisture ring left on the bar by the dude next to her and looked up at the rest of the customers. In the light of the neon ‘COCKTAILS’ sign, everyone looked a little washed out. Or maybe that was her storytelling skills.

‘In conclusion?’ someone muttered. ‘Who finishes a story like that with _in conclusion_?’

Ava picked the man out of the crowd—animal print shirt, khaki shorts, very original—and shrugged. ‘My husband of three days might have stolen my life savings, handed me divorce papers as I was about to board the flight to our honeymoon and announced on Facebook that he’s been having an affair with my sister, whose forthcoming baby is his and not her sperm donor’s, but I haven’t lost my manners.’

The guy thought for a moment. ‘Fair.’

‘I think you should go down the peaceful, forgiving route.’ Ava looked toward the voice and found one of those ladies who’d started her holiday on the paler end of white and was now on the cancerous end of lobster red. It matched her dress brilliantly. ‘My husband ran off with my hairdresser. They met when Sherise did my hair for our wedding! Beggars belief. Anyway, when it first happened I was ready to murder Joe! I’m glad that I eventually found it in my heart to forgive him.’

‘Really? You fully forgave him? I’m not sure I could ever completely forgive Jeremy and Arabella.’

‘Well, it took a while to get to that point. Twelve years, a brief stint of alcoholism and several meditation retreats.’ She stirred her Shirly Temple with a paper straw. ‘I thought I was going to carry my hatred until I died. I even sent anonymous letters to the local press, claiming that Sherise’s hairdryers were faulty and that she cut corners using kitchen bleach. But I got there eventually. Of course, Bobby helped.’ She patted the hand of the man sitting next to her, who was wearing a plaited beard and yoga pants. ‘Bobby helped me through all of it! We met on a commune, you know. We had a wonderful leader, a really fantastic man. Newly sober, war veteran… he really got what it felt like to know _pain_. Bobby and I bonded during a meditation session and I’ve never looked back. I even sent Sherise and Joe a wedding present.’

Ava fished the umbrella out of her glass while she digested this. ‘I’m probably not going to join a commune or send them any baby gifts. Now Jeremy’s wiped our joint accounts and my bloody ISA, I’m stuck paying for the honeymoon, the wedding, the house, the house repairs and the repayments on a mattress we never really put to good use. Also, I sort of want to burn the bastard’s face off with matchsticks.’

‘My sister persuaded my dad to write me out of his will,’ another tourist volunteered. He reminded Ava enormously of that athlete. The tall one. The… boxer? That had always been Jeremy’s domain. (He liked to think of himself as a ‘man’s man,’ as he put it, although Ava had watched him baulk at _Peaky Blinders_.) ‘It shouldn’t have been allowed, but I couldn’t prove she’d done anything wrong.’

‘What did you do?’ Ava asked. She motioned to the barman, Nicolai, for another drink. His was the first bar she stumbled into, inconsolable, on her first evening in the resort, and he’d spent the next fortnight serving her three different cocktails each evening and offering sage advice about the resort’s best restaurants. She did not need to tell him she required a fourth… whatever this was.

‘I stole her cat,’ the tourist said. He sipped his beer contemplatively. ‘Felt a lot better for it.’

‘Oh. Taking a cat doesn’t sound so—’

‘I filmed it being fed it to a starving dog. Then I sent her the video and arranged for a year’s subscription of dog food to be delivered to her house.’

‘Oh.’ Ava gulped her drink. ‘I don’t… Jeremy and I don’t have any pets.’

‘I could help you burn his face off with matchsticks?’ he offered. ‘I used to be in the army, so I’m good with blood.’

‘I’m a nurse,’ Ava replied. ‘I’m great with blood. Anyway… to be honest I don’t know if I’d want to waste all the good work that surgeon did on his nose.’

‘If violence isn’t an option,’ someone else said, ‘why don’t you play him at his own game?’

‘Get a nose job?’ Ava frowned. ‘I don’t have any issues with my breathing, though. And I was never in an accident with a cricket bat.’

‘Not the nose! Why don’t you steal his money? You’re just taking what you’re owed.’ The woman who’d spoken was petite, with the most spectacular afro Ava had ever seen. A small boy was curled in her lap, sound asleep. Her name was Emily and she was an English ex-patriot; Ava had seen her several times over the course of her holiday, usually wearing an aquamarine polo shirt and corralling tourists towards a minibus. ‘Robbie’s dad never paid child support. _Ever_. Claimed… claimed all sorts. I spent a lot of nights where you are, except instead of a nice bar on a resort I was in my bedroom crying to my mum. Then one day I got a letter from his bank. He had so many bullshit bank accounts he’d forgotten to redirect all his post. Turned out the account was in my name, although to be fair he was actually using it for money laundering.’ _To be fair_ wasn’t the phrase Ava would have used, but she nodded anyway.

‘What did you do?’

‘Gave notice on my flat, emptied the account, got my ducks in a row and brought Robbie out here for a better life. We still lived in Wokingham, he’d be glued to his computer. I’d be scared to let him play in the garden in case something happened to him. Instead he speaks four languages, gets my mum all to himself when she visits and swims like a fish. I spend my summers meeting tourists and my winters making bobble hats to sell on Etsy. Best decision I ever made.’

‘What about your ex? Did he ever come after you?’

‘Oh, he tried. I accidentally-on-purpose paid my mate to hack his computer and plant links to a paedophile ring, though, so he’s currently having a really nice time in prison. It’s what he deserves,’ Emily added at the look on Ava’s face. ‘He used to use Robbie’s crib to store drugs and take him on business trips to the park because no one suspects a man with a baby. God, I have terrible taste in men.’

‘I think you possibly do.’ Ava watched Emily stroke her son’s hair and wondered if she had it in her to stitch Jeremy up for something awful. He was terrible—how had she not realised how terrible he was before she married him?—but she wasn’t sure he deserved jail time. She did want her money back, though.

‘I think you should go for the forgiveness route,’ said Nicolai. He’d polished glasses as Ava told her story, quite loudly, to the other customers. She hadn’t meant to hold court over the entire bar, but two weeks of watching Jeremy and Arabella post baby updates to their social media had done their damage. The dam broke when her aunt Frieda had posted a heart emoji in response to their latest post (an ultrasound and some ugly as hell baby booties). Aunt Frieda never bloody liked Jeremy! And she always said Ava was the nicer of the two sisters! Really, getting pissed and retelling her shit life to strangers at full volume had been the only possible course of action.

‘Would you really?’ Ava was surprised. Nicolai looked like the sort of man who attached pliers to people’s extremities to persuade them to tell him where the money was. Ava had assumed they would enjoy a brief liaison before her flight home, but also assumed that most of the cash he took went straight into a duffel bag at the end of each evening. No one could deal with drunk stag night lads the way he could without a history in violent crime.

‘Yes. When I was twenty-four, my boyfriend left me. I was distraught—’

‘Boyfriend?’ Ava nearly put an umbrella up her nose.

‘Yes yes. Get with the century.’ Nicolai waved a hand impatiently. ‘I was devastated. He left me for an accountant. Said he wanted a stable life. He stole cars for a living! So I shot the accountant eight times while he watched. One time for each of the weeks they were together before he told me about them. Then I shot him. Sixteen times, for the number of times he said we should move to Australia to work on a farm.’

‘Right. So…’

‘So then I had to flee the country, I spent years on the run before I settled here and I’ve been serving cocktails to sunburnt idiots ever since. And do you think it brought me peace?’

‘Um. No?’

‘No! Because whenever I close my eyes, I see Sasha covered in blood, twitching as he dies. His corpse is leaking badly and ruining his mother’s carpet. We always got along very well, I feel terrible I destroyed her front room.’

‘You killed him at his—not important. That’s why you think I should forgive Jeremy? I hate his mother.’

‘No! Because I am tormented! I take pills to stay awake and pills to go to sleep. I went to a priest once and he told me my guilt was my punishment for embarking on a relationship with a man. So I shot the priest. And now I feel worse! It isn’t worth it.’

‘Hm. I need a wee. Don’t let my stool go.’

Ava hopped—okay, fell—off her barstool and spent a happy ten minutes propping the loo door shut with her foot while she sat on the toilet, musing. At least she’d been right about Nicolai’s past in violent crime.

When she walked—okay, stumbled—back to the bar, Sunburn Forgiveness Lady was leaning against it, chatting to Nicolai about organic snacks.

‘Have you decided what you’re going to do, dear?’ she asked. ‘I’ve written down the name of that commune, just in case.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And I was thinking… we should have dinner tomorrow,’ Nicolai said. ‘I would love to show you this taverna on the other side of the resort. We can watch the sun set.’ Huh.

‘That would be wonderful.’ Ava hiccupped slightly. ‘Could I get a glass of water, please, Nicolai? I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

‘You want to sober up to rush back to England to burn off Jeremy’s face?’

‘Tempting, but no. I’m taking a leaf out of Emily’s book. I think I’m going to get even with Jeremy and Arabella. Not _too_ even,’ she added hastily. ‘No gunshot deaths. But, well, I still have the keys to our house. Jeremy’s staying at my sister’s. I was thinking… the only thing Jeremy cares about as much as himself, and presumably his unborn devil spawn, is his collection of antique plates. Don’t ask. He nicked about ten grand off me, which is the value of a few of those plates. So I might sell a few and smash a few. Or sell them all and go on another holiday. I’m going to get a decent solicitor and divorce Jeremy on my terms. That might be where the plate money goes. Once it’s finalised, I’ll send them my wedding dress in a box laced with poison ivy. Jeremy’s badly allergic, but not enough to kill him. I just want him to have a couple of really shit days. That’ll be enough for me, because Arabella is an awful girlfriend. Everyone thinks she’s the fun one out of the two of us, but Jeremy’s excessively boring. Once he realises that she cleans the bathroom once every six months and never empties the dishwasher, he’s going to go bananas. I’m also pretty sure she thinks having a baby is a part time job and will want a nanny as soon as possible, which is going to infuriate Jeremy’s mum. Who will in turn infuriate Arabella. So I’m going to watch it all, smile sweetly for every family photograph and apply for a sabbatical from work to go to Australia to work on a farm for six months. Might come back with a deeply tanned surfer boyfriend.’

‘That’s all?’ Nicolai looked amused.

‘It’s not set in stone. Might do a bit of backpacking in Asia. I’ll see how much the plates are worth.’

‘That sounds very… moderate.’

‘I think so. Now, Nicolai… I’ve changed my mind. Please can I try one of those blue cocktails?’


	23. The Forums (The Hierophant)

** THE BAND **

** Official News **

**Latest post: New album news! _Last updated by: Ginax, today, 6:57pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 13.

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 29th August

Hi everyone,

We’re so excited to announce the latest offering from The Band:

 _THEMATICALLY DIFFERENT FOURTH ALBUM_ , AVAILABLE 22ND NOVEMBER!

Track list:

20gayteen

Pixie Dust

E/A/S/Y

This Song Isn’t About Who You Think It’s About (Or Is It?)

Ada Lovelace

The Trees Speak Latin

Moon_shine

Quarantina

Bad Omens

1st Class Stamp

Here’s a statement from The Band:

_‘We’re so proud and excited to finally share with you THEMATICALLY DIFFERENT FOURTH ALBUM. Is the all-caps necessary? Probably not, but we’re so pleased with how it’s turned out that we want to shout about it. Thank you all for your continued support during this creative process (we really weren’t expecting those demos to go viral like they did). We can’t wait to play these songs live, in an arena, when it is safe to do so._

_Much love, A, T, R and C. xoxo’_

Posted by: Broken Flowers [admin], 29th August

AHHHHHHHHHHH

Posted by: CrimsonClouds, 29th August

I’M SO READY

**Page 13 of 13.**

Posted by: Ginax, 3rd September

I’m so excited to finally hear new music! I feel like Quarantina’s going to make me cry…

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 3rd September

Oh god absolutely. Any bets on what the first single will be?

Posted by: Ginax, 3rd September

This Song Isn’t About Who You Think It’s About (Or Is It?) sounds like it’s going to be an anthem, so that’s where my money’s going.

** Band Discussion **

**Latest post: Which album is the BEST? _Last updated by: Scarlett, today 1:08am_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 7.

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 4th January

Hi everyone! I thought we’d put it to a totally unscientific vote… which album by The Band is the best? My vote goes to Unexpectedly Good Debut. It’s so raw and new! Also the cover art is

<faintingwoman.gif>

Posted by: CanaryYellow, 4th January

Commercially Successful Follow Up!

Posted by: Dancer, 4th January

Hey guys check out my cover of First Hit Single on YouTube!

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 5th January

Hi Dancer, please share your covers in the Art Corner, there’s a whole thread dedicated to covers!

**Page 7 of 7.**

Posted by: Ginax, 2nd September

For me, Edgy Third Album is the best. I feel like you can hear the work that went into it, but it’s also got me through some really tough times.

Posted by: Beth, 2nd September

I love love Edgy Third Album, but I think Unexpectedly Good Debut is my favourite. The sound is so raw and honest, you can tell they’re just being themselves and figuring out their sound. Also Bloodlines is my favourite song ever.

Posted by: Scarlett, 3rd September

I’m with you on Bloodlines, Luna! It’s so hard to pick but I think Commercially Successful Follow Up is their best. It’s so slick and well put together, and the concept is just *chef’s kiss*

** Tour **

**Latest post: Stay Tuned for Tour Dates _Last updated by: Lisa the Admin, Tuesday, 9:07am_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 NEXT > Page 1 of 5.

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 29th August

Hi guys,

We wanted to post an update about tour dates. Obviously with the Covid-19 pandemic, The Band and Record Company are reluctant to confirm tour dates until further notice. But rest assured there WILL be a WORLD tour for THEMATICALLY DIFFERENT FOURTH ALBUM! Please stay tuned and we’ll update you as soon as we can.

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 29th August

Totally understandable. Damn this pandemic!

Posted by: Rex, 29th August

Does anyone want to hang out if they come to Prague?

Posted by: KandyFloss, 29th August

Come to Brazil!

**Page 5 of 5.**

Posted by: Zen, 1st September

_This post has been removed by admin._

Posted by: Zen, 1st September

_This post has been removed by admin._

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 1st September

Guys, a friendly reminder that Band threads are not the place to share anti-vax theories! Please take personal discussion to the Member Lounge (and remember that although we encourage conversation, we will not tolerate the spread of misinformation. You can brush up on the Forum rules here).

** FANS **

** Fan Discussion **

**Latest post: Introduce yourself here! _Last updated by: Ginax, Saturday, 8:07pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 47.

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 31st December

Hi everyone, with the forums re-opening after moving servers, we wanted to add a new thread where you can all introduce yourselves and get to know one another!

I’ll go first: I’m Lisa, I’m 33 (one of the oldies haha, I remember when Unexpectedly Good Debut came out!). I live in Toronto, Canada, with my husband and three dogs. I’m the main administrator for this site, but I’m helped out by my trusty sidekicks, Luna and Terri!

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 31st December

Hi everyone! I’m Luna, I’m from Ireland. I’m currently doing a Master’s degree in History and hoping to take a PhD one day. I got into The Band a couple of years ago, via my brother and his (very cool) friends. I joined the old street team forum years ago, and when the site moved to this forum, Lisa asked if I’d like to help moderate. I did, of course. 😊

Posted by: Krista, 1st January

Hi! I’m Krista, I’m from New Zealand. I’m in my final year of medical school and I’ve been a fan of The Band since the Commercially Successful Follow Up days. I’ve seen them live 8 times (I followed the last leg of their World Tour with my boyfriend!). Can’t wait to connect with some more fans.

**Page 47 of 47.**

Posted by: Ginax, 29th August

Hi everyone! I’m Gina, I’m a HS senior from Ohio. I’ve been a fan of The Band for 6 years, but I didn’t realise this forum existed until now. It’s so nice to connect with other fans of The Band!

Posted by: BrokenFlowers [admin], 29th August

Hi Gina! I’m Terri, one of the moderators of the forum alongside LunaCY and Lisa the Admin (get in touch with one of us if you need anything! Luna and I are just volunteers, while Lisa actually works for The Band’s label). It’s nice to meet you 😊 If you’re looking for other fans in your area, I recommend checking out the Teams part of the forum, I’m pretty sure there’s a thread on there dedicated to the Midwest. I’m in southern Europe. Not many fans of The Band where I live. :’(

Posted by: Ginax, 29th August

Thanks for the warm welcome Terri! I’ll check it out, thanks.

** Teams **

**Latest post: Is anyone free to meet up in Birmingham this summer? _Last updated by: Krista, Monday, 8:29pm_**

1 / 2 NEXT > Page 1 of 2.

Posted by: CinnamonStixx, 26th August

Does anyone in the Birmingham area want to hang out this summer? Be great to meet some other fans. Maybe we could meet up on the anniversary of Commercially Successful Follow Up?

Posted by: ghost, 27th August

Birmingham, Alabama? I’d love to!

Posted by: CinnamonStixx, 27th August

Ahh no, Birmingham, UK.

**Page 2 of 2.**

Posted by: ghost, 30th August

Ahaaaa sorry I just saw this! Haha wrong Birmingham. The UK might be a bit far to go. 😊

Posted by: Krista, 31st August

Guys, I think we need a map where we can add our counties/cities/states? Nothing too specific, of course. Does anyone know how to make one?

** Art Corner **

**Latest post: Band portraits _Last updated by: MarilynsCurls, yesterday, 4:44pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 NEXT > Page 1 of 3.

Posted by: MarylinsCurls, 24th August

Hey guys heres my portrait of the band hope you all like!

<C_and_R.jpg> <A_and_T.jpg> <group_pic.jpg>

Posted by: CanaryYellow, 24th August

Wow, that’s… something.

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 25th August

Marilyn, I don’t mean to come across as rude (your painting is really good!) but I’m not sure that’s appropriate so I’ve hidden it.

Posted by: MarylinsCurls, 25th August

Why not?

**Page 3 of 3.**

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 1st September

As it’s been pointed out, this content probably isn’t suitable for these forums due to its graphic sexual nature. I checked the rules and regulations, and there aren’t any specific rules in place regarding fan art. Having spoken with my fellow moderators at length, we’ve decided to hide MarylinsCurls’s paintings behind a content warning, as there was no rule stating they couldn’t post, but we’re mindful that the art is considered NSFW (not safe for work). Going forward, however, we will have a strict policy regarding graphic/artistic content. Although all users of this site must be aged 13 or older, we want to keep the forum as safe and appropriate as possible. You can read our updated rules and regulations here.

Posted by: MarylinsCurls, 2nd September

Okay cool thanks for the heads up. Ive set up an Etsy! Check it out here!!!

** NOT FANS **

** Member Lounge **

**Latest post: Need to vent? _Last updated by: daffodils, today, 01:21am_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 63.

Posted by: BrokenFlowers [admin], 1st January

Need to rant and vent some anger? Get it out here!

Note: if you require resources regarding self-injury and self-harm, please check out this thread. Please be respectful of everybody on this forum!

Posted by: Scarlett, 3rd January

How have my new year’s resolutions gone to hell already?! It’s been 3 days! Could it have anything to do with a certain someone hinting that I’ll never be able to keep my resolution to go running on every weekday?

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 4th January

Don’t let anyone put you off, S. You can do it!

On a side note: WHY DID I SIGN UP FOR AN EXTRA CLASS WHYYYYYYY

Posted by: Rex, 4th January

I’m writing off this year already. My car’s been broken into AND I lost my house keys. The Band had better put music out this year or I’m moving to the moon…

**Page 63 of 63.**

Posted by: ghost, 25th August

Ugh, families can be the worst. I’m so sorry you’ve had to put up with that, D. Is there someone you could talk to through college? They might be able to help an a practical way.

Posted by: CinnamonStixx, 1st September

I’m with Ghost and WanderingHome! You shouldn’t have to put up with that, Daff. Feel free to PM me if things get any worse.

Posted by: daffodils, 3rd September

Thanks, guys, I feel so much better now. I’m going to get in touch with the college support team tomorrow. Thanks for listening!

** Entertainment **

**Latest post: What’s the last film you watched? _Last updated by: WanderingHome, Monday, 6:14pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 12.

Posted by: daffodils, 2nd February

How have we not got one of these?! Comment with the last film you watched:

_The Fellowship of the Ring_

Posted by: ghost, 3rd February

_Mad Max_

Posted by: witchinghour, 3rd February

_La La Land_

Posted by: WolfStar, 6th February

_The Great Gatsby_ (Baz Luhrmann one)

**Page 12 of 12.**

Posted by: BubblegumDiamonds, 29th August

_Avengers: Endgame :’(_

Posted by: daffodils, 31st August

_Some Like It Hot_

Posted by: WanderingHome, 31st August

_Basic Instinct_ It has not aged well

** Other Discussions **

**Latest post: This or that? _Last updated by: LunaCY, yesterday, 6:57pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 32.

Posted by: PeacockFeathers, 29th January

I love the this or that game. The rules are simple… choose between this or that!

Tunnocks Tea Cakes or Jaffa Cakes?

Posted by: ghost, 29th January

Are those sweets? From a country I’m not from hahaha. Um… Jaffa Cakes?! I just looked them up and they look delicious

Hot or cold?

Posted by: daffodils, 1st February

Cold

Dogs or cats?

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 1st February

CATS!

Taylor Swift or Lorde?

**Page 32 of 32.**

Posted by: CinnamonStixx, 31st August

Times New Roman!

Sunrise or sunset?

Posted by: Ginax, 1st September

Sunset, no question,

Coke or Pepsi?

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 2nd September

WHAT SORT OF QUESTION

Pepsiiii

Marvel or DC?

** RULES & REGULATIONS **

** House Rules **

**Latest post: No discussion about private lives _Last updated by: MarylinsCurls, yesterday, 4:11pm_**

**1** / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 NEXT > Page 1 of 7.

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 1st January

Hi everyone, we have decided to implement a rule on the new forums regarding the discussion of The Band’s private lives. This includes families. Please limit your discussions to The Band’s work and music, and report any posts contravening this rule.

Posted by: ghost, 1st January

Such a good idea. The old forums got a bit… icky.

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 2nd January

You can say that again. Ugh.

**Page 7 of 7.**

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 2nd September

Hi Marilyn, thanks for your question but that would definitely come under the ‘no private lives’ rule. Thanks!

Posted by: MarylinsCurls, 2nd January

Okay np!

** Help & Support **

**Latest post: Please help! _Last updated by: bagpipes, Saturday, 2:11pm_**

Page **1** of 1.

Posted by: bagpipes, 28th August

Hi! I’m new to the site and I can’t figure out how to add an avatar? None of the links seem to be working.

Posted by: LunaCY [admin], 28th August

Hi! Avatars have to be a specific size. Maybe the photo you’re linking is too big?

Posted by: Lisa the Admin [admin], 29th August

Hi bagpipes, PM me the image you’re trying to use and I’ll see what I can do!

Posted by: bagpipes, 29th August

Thank you so much, I’ve just messaged you!


	24. Sunflowers (The Empress)

Little Barking wasn’t known for its stunning natural beauty, nor its architectural significance. It was usually described as ‘nice but nondescript’ by people who passed through it on the way to somewhere else. Except for the sunflowers.

According to legend and the local newspaper (which was surprisingly accurate), Little Barking was the place to go for magical sunflowers. Specifically, twenty-seven Highbury Avenue. Specifically, on the second Wednesday of every August.

If you picked a sunflower from number twenty-seven’s front garden on the second Wednesday of every August, you could be guaranteed one wish for the year. Providing it wasn’t something too selfish or psychopathic, you’d have your wish granted.

For Petronella Schwartz, the second Wednesday of August was highly personal. This was because she owned twenty-seven Highbury Avenue.

Having moved to Little Barking for a fresh start after a bad marriage, Petronella was initially less concerned with her sunflowers than she was with her safety and independence. For a while, the front garden existed as it had before: scrubby, uncapped, neglected. She assumed it had always been abandoned; the people she purchased the house from hadn’t really gone in for maintenance, which was why she could afford it. Neighbours filled her in soon enough: the previous owners had been the sort of people one usually described as ‘dysfunctional’ and as such had no interest in gardening. Petronella nodded and wondered if she, too, was dysfunctional. To own number twenty-seven Highbury was to own a piece of history, the neighbours assured her, and one was expected to respect that. Naturally private and disinclined to socialise outside of her work as a music teacher, Petronella was initially happy to leave the locals to their traditions; she wasn’t much of a gardener and often went away in August anyway.

But as the years went by, she began to look forward the summer season, to watching the flowers bloom over the weeks and seeing people pass by the house throughout second Wednesday in August. Most took a cutting and hurried away, but some would chat while she popped into and out of the house. Without intending to, Petronella became as much a part of twenty-seven Highbury Avenue as the sunflowers themselves. She even began tending to the back garden.

Her attitude changed when she came home from holiday on the morning of the second Wednesday, eight or nine years after she moved in. She was looking forward to seeing her sunflowers before locals began arriving. For the first time, she found herself planning to cut one of the flowers for herself. Her holiday, taken with her sister and her brother-in-law, had involved a family wedding. It was the first family function Petronella had attended in over a decade, so naturally involved a great number of questions about why she’d fallen off the face of the earth.

Petronella declined to answer any of them. A substantial part of her life had been locked in a box when she moved to Little Barking, the key buried beneath years of new memories. She told her family this.

It did not put her family off asking.

Petronella was supposed to arrive home on Monday, but a combination of air-traffic control issues and road traffic issues saw her reach Highbury Avenue at five thirty on Wednesday. In dire need of a shower, she initially didn’t notice that anything was amiss. Only when touching a cup of tea and collecting letters from the post box did she realise: this was the second Wednesday.

All the sunflowers were gone.

It was still dawn.

Until she was standing outside in her socks, staring at a bed of stubbly stems, Petronella hadn’t realised how much she’d been relying on that wish. Had the entire town trooped by at first light? Most people came along throughout the day in dribs and drabs. What, exactly, gave the townspeople the right to help themselves to her property?

The next year, she promised herself, she would be waiting.

Petronella was so crestfallen at her neighbours’ behaviour that it took until Halloween for her to calm down and consider a plan for next year. In the meantime, she had built quite a reputation at local shops. Every time you said hello, she glared at you in disgust, clearly trying to decipher if good luck lingered on your person. She began to build a reputation as the music teacher who would throw your instrument across the room if you so much as mentioned _Waltz of the Flowers_.

By Christmas, she had a clear idea about what to do come August.

By Easter, her plans were finalised.

By the second May bank holiday, the neighbours knew she was up to something.

By mid-June, there was talk of open warfare.

On the eve of the third Wednesday in August, Petronella settled into her home for the next twenty-four hours: an alcove in her attic, specially constructed by a crack squad of out-of-town carpenters (she had been too paranoid to use local suppliers). From behind one-way glass, she could see her front garden and the approaching foot traffic. No blind spots, unless you counted behind the low garden wall – which she didn’t, as she had installed a complicated camera system thus her giving her extra eyes onto the street below.

The first target arrived at five o’clock. Petronella had spent a few days accustoming herself to the all-nighter required, so was tired but confident in her abilities to stay alert. She had also been learning to meditate, so by three o’clock was sat peacefully, listening carefully to the sounds of the neighbourhood.

One set of footsteps: a smaller figure, entering in black clothing. Petronella was glad she’d put this year’s holiday money into the cameras, which had a night vision setting.

Light began to break around five thirty—just enough to be considered daytime, Petronella supposed.

A balaclava-clad head popped up. Petronella directed her water pistol. The intruder set a pair of kitchen scissors on the wall… Hands snaked toward the sunflowers—

SPLOOSH!

Dual jets of icy water smash the intruder directly in the chest. They fell backwards over the wall on into a very satisfying puddle.

The best bit? Water pistols aren’t as loud as a car or slammed door. No lights came on in the nearby houses. The intruder, dripping wet, sprinted down the street.

Satisfied, Petronella sat back for another twenty hours of waiting.

The next invasion: around five forty-five. Dawn was really breaking, with a steady glow lighting the avenue. The new figure: much older, dressed in jeans and a football shirt. Petronella scowled, recognising them immediately as Mr Campbell, the proprietor of the local shop. He leant over the fence, secateurs in hand, to—

SPLOOSH!

He landed on his haunches, spluttering. Petronella allowed herself a congratulatory sip of Sprite, sat in the cool box by her feet (also in residence: a camping toilet, wet wipes and a photograph of her garden last year).

But wait. Mr Campbell had company. The black clad figure from earlier! Petronella had watched them run down the street—they must have hidden behind a car. They helped Mr Campbell to his feet and seemed to be discussing something. Going by the body language, Mr C’s response was argumentative. Why, damnit, hadn’t she invested in a sound kit?

Before Petronella could ready her water pistols, a taxi approached. An elderly lady shuffled out. Petronella thought she recognised Mrs Dubois, an elderly resident who lived in a bungalow near the park and was best known for being both a rank alcoholic and mother to a gentleman currently doing time for something involving children.

Mrs Dubois leant heavily on a stick and joined the conversation. For the first time, Petronella faltered. Could she sploosh an elderly woman? She had expected youth and lager louts, not pensioners.

While she deliberated, the discussion below became increasingly heated, with arm waving and snatches of conversation floating up to the attic. The smaller black clad figure turned and pointed at Petronella. Her heart lurched. The figure beckoned.

This was not part of the plan. Petronella stomped downstairs, still clutching her water pistols, to confront the thieves.

‘What was the water pistol for?’ Mr Campbell demanded.

‘Self defence.’

‘I wanted your sunflowers, not you.’

‘I’m administering self defence on behalf of the sunflowers.’

‘Why are you here?’ Petronella asked Mr Campbell.

‘None of your business. Not now you’ve splooshed me.’

‘It is if you’re planning to remove every single flower from my garden and take them for yourself. Since when did coming at predawn become a thing? I used to watch people, all day, all times of day, take one flower.’

Mr Campbell and Mrs Dubois looked guilty. The kid didn’t. ‘What if we need them?’ they asked. Petronella couldn’t tell how old they were, nor what they looked like beneath all the black. She thought she recognised the voice, though.

‘ _All_ of them?’

The kid shifted.

‘Take your balaclava off so I can see you.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want my parents knowing I’m here. They—they might ask why.’

‘And you don’t want to tell them because…’

‘Because none of your business, lady.’

‘Right, then, Mrs Dubois. Explain why you’re here in the wee small hours.’

‘It’s my son.’

‘The prison one.’

‘Yes. I take a flower every year to make sure he stays out of trouble in prison.’

‘Out of trouble?’ Petronella echoed.

‘Safe. Healthy. You know what those places are like.’

Petronella didn’t, but she had seen films that might be accurate. ‘And you, Mr C? I am sorry for splooshing you.’

Mr Campbell rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s my wife. She has—’

‘Multiple sclerosis. God, Mr Campbell, I’m so sorry I forgot. Please, take your flower. You too, Mrs Dubois.’

Balaclava kid stood up from the fence. ‘Can I?’

‘Not until you take that bloody mask off.’

‘Fine.’ They pulled off the balaclava to reveal—

‘Samantha?’

‘Sam.’

‘I used to teach you piano! Until—’

‘Until my parents rescinded my hobby privileges because I came out to them.’

‘Came out?’ Mrs Dubois asked. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Jesus, Mrs D, I didn’t think you were that old. I. Told. My. Parents. I. Am. Transgender. You can Google that, I’m not explaining it to you.’

A silence settled over the company. Mrs Dubois looked like she was doing a lot of thinking. Mr Campbell looked like he wanted to go back to bed.

Petronella probably looked like she was doing a lot of thinking, too. How had she never thought to ask why the townspeople came to number twenty-seven? She’d seen Mrs Dubois most years, leaning on that bloody cane.

‘You wanted a sunflower to get your parents back on side?’ Petronella looked at Sam, who was fidgeting.

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, then, take it.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. And if you ever want to come round for lessons, I won’t charge.’

‘Oh. Thank you. There’s—there’s something else you should know.’

‘Hm?’

‘It was me who took all the sunflowers last year. For my friends and I. We’re part of the same online group. There are a lot of us,’ Sam added defensively.

‘I understand.’

‘Really?’

Petronella shrugged. ‘The reason I was so angry last year was that I wanted a sunflower for myself. You’re not the only one with complicated family.’

‘I wanted to come last year too, Mr Campbell said. ‘Jessie had just been diagnosed. I hated that we had to wait another year for a chance to alleviate her symptoms.’

‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time, Sam looked genuinely upset. ‘I didn’t think about why everyone else wanted them.’

‘Well, that’s understandable,’ Petronella said. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you all come in for a cup of tea? I’d like you to have a look at my back garden. I was thinking… I could plant some sunflowers in there?’


	25. Untitled Part One (The World)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this really is untitled. Suggestions welcome...

** Spring **

When Lucas sought out a fairy godmother, he hadn’t expected to meet a woman wearing jeans, a sharp leather jacket and a silver tiara. He hadn’t expected to meet her in a side street next to some roadworks either.

‘Oh, this?’ she said when she caught him staring at her outfit. ‘None of us wear dresses and wings any more, if we don’t want to. Not practical. But we all still wear our circlets. They’re like ID cards, really. Now, how can I help you?’

‘I… it’s my tearoom. Or rather, I want to open a tearoom. It’s been my dream since I was a child. I’ve got qualifications. I’ve worked in the industry since I left school. My business plan is solid—I’ve done some workshops. But I can’t seem to get any good luck.’ Lucas realised he was rambling, the words tumbling out before he could check if they made sense, but he couldn’t seem to press pause. ‘I’ll hear about a funding opportunity only to find out I’m not eligible, or I’ll come across the perfect location only to be outbid by someone who wants to turn it into a block of flats. I’m not getting any younger, and I’m worried the time is passing me by. I couldn’t start earlier, as I had my family to think about, and savings to build. And the economy’s been so, well, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘So I’d like to do what I can now, while I’m still fit enough to be on my feet all day. While my wife and I still have our health and our children are young enough to watch me build something.’ What he didn’t add was _: I’m thirty-six and I’ve been working towards this for twenty years. I want my parents to see me make something of myself, after they came all this way to give Lilith and I a better life. I want my children to have a better one than me. I want to make somewhere that people can come and read a book and see their friends and listen to live music on Thursdays._

‘Hm.’ The fairy godmother nodded thoughtfully. Other than the tiara—circlet—she looked like a normal human. He’d been expecting someone dainty and bone white, who looked like they could’ve been cut from moon dust or starlight, like the elves in _The Lord of the Rings_ , but she seemed as solid as Lucas. Her accent was slightly West Country and she looked South East Asian, maybe, with a bob of dark hair and warm brown skin. Her eyeliner was, as Lucas’s preteen daughter would have said, on point. ‘I can help you out. I have two conditions, though.’

‘Name them.’

‘One, when your tearoom is up and running, my book club gets to use it every fourth Tuesday. We’re meeting in a pub at the moment and I’m tired of the awful drinks and rowdy customers. Two, whatever good fortune I offer you now, you will miss out on at a later date. I can’t just summon luck from the ether, I’m afraid. The universe needs to balance out.’

Lucas considered it. ‘If I got a chunk of good luck now, would I lose a chunk of good luck at one specific point in the future? Say you offered me one kilogram of luck. In ten years’ time, my wife is hit by a car. She needed one kilogram of luck to survive. Bam, she’s dead. Or do you offer me one kilogram of luck, and in two months I miss out on fifty grams of good luck when I slip in the street and twist an ankle, which makes me late for a meeting that could have equated to fifty grams of business opportunities. At a later date, my daughter misses the bus to a job interview, because she needed one hundred grams of luck to overcome the terrible traffic system, which I still owed you. And so on and so on until the kilogram of luck is paid for?’

The fairy godmother smiled faintly. ‘I like how you think. It’s a gradual thing. You’ll notice bits and pieces here and there. Unless I decide I really don’t like you.’

Lucas thought some more. ‘That makes sense. I agree to your conditions.’

‘Finally, you should know that I can only help you so much. Good fortune will not negate laziness, nor bad decision making. This is not a free pass to success: you will still need to work as hard as you ever have.’

‘I understand.’

‘Right.’ The fairy godmother produced a wand from the inside of her jacket. ‘I can offer you low levels of luck, medium good luck or high levels of good luck. They do what they say on the tin, but remember that you’ll miss out on those same levels at another point.’

‘I’ll take the lowest level, please.’

‘Really?’ The fairy raised an eyebrow. ‘With your mum’s citizenship test coming up and your son’s private tutoring? In this economy?’

‘Yes. I only need a little to get me off the ground. I know I have the work ethic to do the rest. Besides, I won’t risk anything coming back to impact my family in the long run.’

‘In that case,’ the fairy waved her wand and a piece of parchment appeared in the air between them, accompanied by a loaded quill. ‘Sign on the dotted line and we have a deal.’

** Summer **

‘Lucas! Come here, my man, I have news for you.’

Lucas blinked up, delirious. He’d been on the early shift at the twenty-four hour café he worked at, making breakfasts and cleaning tables since four o’clock. Now, at eight thirty, he was about to go on a break in which he would phone a man about a funding opportunity. He did not have the mental energy to be horrendously polite to Carl, the boss’s son, but he didn’t feel bad about it: no one had the mental energy to be polite to Carl. Carl liked to accidentally-on-purpose drop plates of eggs on the floor. He was also thirty-five and still lived off both his parents.

‘Hey, Carl. Can I get you anything before I go for my coffee?’

‘You can check out this sweet deal I’ve got for you!’ Carl slid a phone under Lucas nose: an online listing for—

‘The bistro on Brompton Road? I didn’t think it was up for sale.’

‘Found out this morning. My girlfriend knows the owners’ daughter. They’re moving to Spain now the dad’s got arthritis. It went on the market this morning. Here’s his number.’

‘Wow, Carl. Thank you. I don’t know what to say…’

‘Maybe put my name up in the toilet cubicles. I’ve always wanted that.’

‘Mm.’ Lucas was reading the listing. Between his savings and the funding he was applying for… he might be in with the chance.

** Autumn **

‘Are you sure about this, Lucas?’ Lucas’s wife, Olwyn, surveyed the tearoom. With less than half an hour until they opened the doors to One Steep at a Time, last minute doubts were beginning to creep in. ‘There’s still time to go back.’

‘I’m as sure as I was that we definitely wanted a third child.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘We’ve got this.’ Lucas kissed her forehead. ‘The kitchen is tip top. This location is a dream. And your interior design is just… magical.’

‘Ah, you’re the one with the vision.’ Olwyn was tactful enough not to mention that their entire flat had been turned into a mood board for One Steep at a Time, with Lucas and the children experimenting with paint swatches on every available surface.

‘It’s a team effort.’ Lucas gazed at the café, savouring everything while it was still pristine. Colourful, handmade cushions on restored, comfy furniture; cream curtains pulled, barely used, from a boot sale; patterned crockery bought on Facebook and scrubbed until it shone. He was glad they’d left a wall clear to display local artwork: the A Level student whose watercolour flowers were on sale had given the tea room a warmth he hadn’t realised it was missing. He wondered if he should buy a couple and leave them there. ‘Do you think this will all be worth it?’

It was a mark of how long he and Olwyn had known each other that she didn’t answer straight away. ‘Do I think it’s going to be as least as much work to run as it was to start? Yes. Do I think you’re going to achieve your dream and realise you have nowhere to go? No. We have so much to learn, Luke. What can we improve upon? Do we have the right events on the right days? Is the atmosphere right? Do we need more vegan options?’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably. We won’t have a dull moment figuring it out, will we? Now let’s get those doors open.’


	26. Untitled Part Two (The World)

** Winter **

‘Luke! We need you out here. There’s a riot.’

Olwyn was prone to exaggeration when stressed, but Lucas put down his receipts nonetheless. ‘Is it because of the roadworks?’

A phone pressed to her ear, Olwyn rolled her eyes. ‘You could say that. Ah—yes, I’ll hold—we’re at Brompton Road—get out there, Luke.’

Lucas followed his wife through the back rooms and onto the shop floor. It was Christmas Eve Eve, as they called it, and the town felt like a pressure cooker for three reasons: one, the roadworks finished at the start of December. A day later, every establishment on the high street flooded, badly. It transpired that fixing the road had broken a water pipe. The owners of said establishments spent most of December picketing the council offices in protest. On occasion, such as this evening, tensions spilt into what is politely called civil unrest. Two, the town’s Christmas market had gone ahead, with roads closed to traffic in most areas. On the Brompton Road, they’d been as busy as ever… possibly too busy, as the high street was out of commission. One Steep at a Time ran out of tea twice this week, and had to turn customers away at the door (with paper cup samples of beverages and takeaway options, of course). Three, it had begun to snow. This had caused another water pipe to burst, this one on Brompton Road, effectively trapping shoppers miles from their cars and laden with pre-holiday stress.

Someone really needed to have a word with the roadworks department.

Lucas fought his way onto the shop floor and climbed a stepladder until he could see every face in the room.

‘Right! Everyone! Olwyn’s on the phone to the council right now, finding out when we can expect the road to be opened. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay here as long as you like. We have enough tea and food for all of you, if we’re economical. Please just pay what you can. Free hot drinks for children and the elderly! We have a radiator you can use if you found yourself caught in the flood—coats and shoes only, please, sir, if you could put your shirt back on. Ma’am, if you could take your feet off that chair so someone else can sit down…’

** Spring **

Lucas was facing up on Friday night when the door went. ‘We’re about to close—oh, hello.’

‘Hullo.’ The fairy godmother was still wearing a circlet and leather jacket, this time over a sun dress. ‘How’s business?’

‘Going really well.’

She inspected the countertop, rattling the tips jar and running a finger over the cake stand. ‘And the missed luck?’

‘To be honest, ma’am, I… I haven’t had it yet. Nothing bad’s happened.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ Lucas amended. ‘Even my mother’s visa worked out in the end.’

‘Hm.’

‘What?’ Lucas was afraid, suddenly. Had he gone back on his deal? ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘No, no, it’s just… you didn’t take much luck, so it didn’t take long to balance you out. I’m just interested that you didn’t notice. I kept tabs and it would have been, ah, the customer with the nut allergy, the issue with the vomiting bug... the Christmas floods.’

‘Oh, those.’ Lucas frowned. ‘I suppose… I suppose I just took them in my stride. It didn’t occur to me that they were bad enough to count as my balancing bad days.’

‘Even the vomiting bug?’

‘Please. I worked in hospitality during the pandemic. I know what to do to keep a café clean, and I know how to track and trace a potential case of gastroenteritis.’

The sides of the fairy’s mouth turned up. ‘In that case, I’m here to claim our Thursday night book club.’


	27. It's Always the Apocalypse Somewhere (The Sun)

It’s always the apocalypse somewhere.

Today, it was at fifty-three Milton Place. Catalyst? An unanswered text. No, not an unanswered text. The jolt of realisation, upon looking for an answer, that most likely none would come. If one did, the realisation continued reasonably, could it possibly improve the situation that culminated in the original message?

‘Ma’am? Are we picking up one more?’ Jen jumped, remembering all at once that she was standing on the curb outside her flat, one foot in a taxi. The driver peered at her through the window. ‘The call said to go to another address after this one, but it didn’t say where?’

Jen blinked rapidly, staring at her phone _. Are you coming to the party?_ There was no way to tell if he’d read it. If she gave the cabbie the address of Nicky’s favourite bar, she knew how the evening would go: the trip across town in late rush hour traffic; a quiet plea to come along just for an hour; _I signed the card for you, there’ll be food, they’ll be so pleased to see you_ ; an increasingly loud refusal; replacing cried-off eyeliner in the cab; an evening of rolled eyes from Aunt Daisy and positive aphorisms from Ned’s wife and hissed arguments about who should have tried harder to get him to care.

Jen’s phone rang. She pulled her foot out of the cab and steadied herself.

‘Hel—’

‘Is he with you?’ The party must be in full swing: Jen’s mother sounded like she was making the call in the Clairemont’s notoriously echoey loos.

‘No.’

‘Can you get him?’

Several years ago, a man at a house party told Jen, ‘You are living in the Ten of Swords.’

‘Is that bad?’ Jen asked, gin glass floundering a little. Her mate Chantal had been into magic at the time, and she vaguely recalled that in the tarot, swords were something to do with stabbing, or being stabbed.

Then she remembered that swords had something to do with stabbing in real life too, and nearly giggled.

‘Look at it this way,’ the man shrugged, seemly oblivious to her smirk. ‘There’s no eleven.’

At the time, Jen scoffed. Twice: once when the man was out of earshot and once when she googled the tarot with Chantal. _Pretty much as bad as it gets_ seemed to be the basic meaning. Jen wasn’t bothered; it was always the apocalypse somewhere. Besides, no one could live in the Ten of Swords for long, could they? Maybe those refugees who washed up in Greece all those years ago and couldn’t leave, maybe those poor lost souls trafficked into the country for sex, maybe her mother with her never-ending arthritis appointments. Not well-educated twenty-somethings with good health and their lives in front of them.

‘You have to admit, your life feels a little stabby at the moment,’ Chantal mused.

Jen rolled her eyes. Nicky had sought and was receiving professional help; her dad’s surgeon was optimistic about his treatment; her new job was easy but promising. There was not, after all, an eleven.

A car honked as it manoeuvred past the taxi. Jen jumped. What reminded her of that conversation? In the eight years since that party, Jen hadn’t thought about it once.

‘Jennifer. Can you get your brother?’

_‘You are living in the Ten of Swords.’_

_‘Your life feels a little stabby…’_

Jen glanced at her phone again, still on the screen with Nicky’s messages. Walls of text (her), one-line responses (Nicky). She looked back up at her flat. One bedroom window (hers), one much-coveted office window, converted into a bedroom (Nicky’s) when he left his shared house. Even from here she could see used glasses crowding his windowsill. Five or six at least, the number of years he’d lived with her rent-free while he sorted himself out.

‘Jenny, can you hear me?’

Life in the years since the Ten of Swords conversation: an eternity at a job so simultaneously boring and high pressured that she couldn’t believe no one she worked with had ever been crushed by the weight of contradiction. Multiple conversations with several doctors that her skin problems were stress-related, her heart palpitations were stress-related, her sleep pattern was stress-related.

Life since Nicky moved in: nights of scrolling through Chantal’s pictures of her hostel in Bali, alternately straining to hear silence and jolted awake by noise. Mornings of checking in with Dad while she waded through pizza boxes and empty bottles and dropped crockery, feeling absurdly guilty that the phone conversation might wake Nicky, who could actually be dead this time anyway, so why did it matter if she put their parents on loudspeaker while she made breakfast?

Jen’s life: stagnant since her early twenties, when the earth began to shake and she fled under the nearest table.

‘Are you all right? Jenny?’

It’s always the apocalypse somewhere, she’d mused as she looked up artsy illustrations of the Ten of Swords. But there were two stages to the apocalypse, weren’t there? Everyone who’d watched TV, or a Bond film, knew that. There was the end of the word, and there was the thing that caused the end of the world.

_Are you coming to the party?_

‘Jennifer, are you still there? You’re worrying me.’

How did they cause the apocalypse on television? Nukes, right?

‘Ma’am, are you okay?’ Jen hadn’t noticed the taxi driver get out of the car. ‘You look like you need to sit down.’

‘No.’

‘No, you’re not there? Jenny, I can barely hear—’

‘No, you’re not okay? Do you need me to call someone?’

‘No, Mum, I’m not collecting Nicky. He knows where we’ll be. It’s his responsibility to get here. And I want him to move out. I’ll tell him tomorrow.’ Jen waved off the cabbie with that universal finger waggle.

‘What do you—’

‘One sec, Mum, I’m literally getting into the cab.’ Jen climbed into the back seat and leant forward. ‘Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to be rude. Just straight to the hotel, please.’ She clicked on her seatbelt and turned her attention back to the phone.

‘Mum, I’ll see you in a bit. Won’t be long. Don’t let Daisy near the whisky, remember.’

Jen ended the call and sat back, strangely giddy. Nuke number one, detonated.

‘Special event?’ the driver asked as they crawled out of Milton Place onto the main road. As if Jen’s sparkly, haggled-to-thirty-quid-on-Depop mini dress hadn’t given it away.

‘My parents’ anniversary.’ Jen reread a final text to Nicky before she sent it: nuke number two. _Hope to see you later. I need to talk to you tomorrow, it’s urgent. Be up by eleven. AM._

‘Big year?’ the cabbie asked.

‘Ruby.’

‘You don’t look old enough to have parents who’ve been married forty years!’

‘They’ve been together forty years, they met when they were teenagers.’

‘It’s a big do, then? The Clairmont is a fantastic venue.’

‘Mm. My dad just got the all clear for his stomach cancer, so it’s kind of a double thing.’

The cabbie was talking about his wife’s uncle’s stomach cancer, or something. Nuke number three: a message to Chantal. _Is that offer to help you out for a season still there? I’ve now learnt to burn toast in SIX WAYS but can bring English biscuits, gossip about at least three of your exes and a chirpy-ish attitude. xxx PS I think I’ve finally seen the light about everything. In dire need of some space, some sun and a change of pace._

Nuke number four: a draft of an email to her boss. _Dear Paul, please could we schedule a meeting next week? I’d like to discuss some personal matters with you._

Jen put her phone away and looked out the window, content to finish the email tomorrow afternoon. She didn’t want Paul thinking she’d made any hasty late-night decisions, although she sort of had.

It was dark enough that shop and bar lights glowed merrily, and the car was finally going fast enough for all the colours to blur together. Jen felt like she’d downed half a bottle of champagne, drunk on the realisation that she’d had it so wrong, all these years. The first time the world ended: her dad’s diagnosis, Nicky’s initial breakdown, a creeping understanding that her job was not the career she anticipated. Jen, under her table, content to sit amongst the ashes and fallen buildings, scanning the horizon for a baby tree or dove or whatever was a sign of good things to come.

She had not expected the second time the world ended to be her own doing.

She should have done it sooner.


	28. Making Connections (The Magician)

When booking a session at an exclusive life coach’s ‘wellness centre,’ Natalie anticipated a white sofa, ambient music and mineral water in glass bottles. She thought the life coach would wear loose fitting, neutral clothes and use phrases such as ‘staying present’ and ‘checking in with the soul.’

She did not expect the lifestyle coach to be psychic.

Not that she looked remotely magical from the outside, of course. The headquarters of the Eupraxia Centre were predictably achromatic. A smiley receptionist booked Natalie in for her session and gestured to a plush cream couch and coffee table. According to a little piece of card, the table’s wood was reclaimed from a tree destroyed by a storm, carved by workers from an initiative that retrained ex-convicts in life skills. Natalie, wearing Primark polyester and uncomfortably aware that she’d ignored a homeless man on the journey in, squirmed slightly. She hoped life coaching didn’t require a commitment to ethical living and regular charity donations. The last twenty quid in her purse was earmarked for a trip to Aldi on the way home. Natalie’s phone buzzed:

_Are you coming to dinner on Sunday?_

She put it back in her cardigan pocket. It buzzed again.

_It’ll just be you, me and Simon. Nadine didn’t answer my call._

She put it back in her pocket. It buzzed again.

_We can’t wait to hear how college is going! I’ve told your nan you’ll be able to do her taxes for her next year : )_ _Enjoy your day at the wellness centre : )_

‘Natalie Ronson?’

Natalie blinked. Tamsin Nguyen, the therapist whose face took up most of the Eupraxia Centre’s website, emerged from a doorway, smiling brightly and holding out a manicured hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Follow me! Anne, do you have Ms Ronson’s notes? Ah, thank you—do bring your water—we’re just through here.’

Tamsin looked exactly as her photos advertised: tall and built, with dark skin and a mane of poker straight black hair, tied in a neat ponytail. She was wearing canvas shoes and a long-sleeved cotton tunic and trousers. Any makeup was so well applied that Natalie couldn’t see it. She held herself exactly as Natalie imagined a lifestyle coach would, gliding through the corridor with the posture of someone who enjoyed a healthy relationship with everyone with whom they interacted on social media.

‘So, Ms Ronson,’ Tamsin said when they were settled on another set of cream couches, surrounded by cheery indoor plants and unlit candles. Natalie noticed a tiny hole in her trainer. How long did she have until it became too big to ignore? Maybe a couple of months. She’d look in a charity shop for a pair, or maybe have a browse on Depop. The postage fees, though. Tamsin was still talking; Natalie was still staring at her feet. ‘I see from your application that you’re here to… “reconnect with yourself and your goals.”’

‘Um, yes.’ Natalie was suddenly nervous. There had been a tick list on the website—had she clicked the wrong box? ‘I had, um, a difficult year and I just—I wanted to—treat myself. My mum bought me a session for Christmas,’ she added. ‘I couldn’t—I couldn’t afford it myself. This isn’t—it was this or a pedicure. I thought this might be more useful.’ She stopped, flushed. She wondered if she had a sign over her head: ‘FINANCIALLY AND MENTALLY UNSTABLE.’ She wondered if Tamsin had noticed the hole in her trainer.

Tamsin nodded, although Natalie wasn’t sure what at. ‘Do you mind if I…’ she gestured at Natalie’s face and stood up.

‘Oh, um, no.’ Natalie wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to and got to her feet, aware she was sweating slightly. She wondered if this was why the website suggested she wear loose fitting clothes and a sports bra. She’d expected some yoga, or mild cardio, or a back massage. The website’s reviews alluded to all three. Tamsin smiled gently, like she knew what Natalie was thinking, and took one of Natalie’s hands in her own. She pressed a thumb into Natalie’s forehead and closed her eyes, humming slightly. Then she gripped Natalie’s shoulders, feeling along the knots in Natalie’s neck.

‘Prolonged stress?’

‘What gave it away?’

Tamsin flashed a smile, eyes still shut. The sleeves of her tunic hitched up, revealing spindly, indistinct tattoos. Hm. Natalie had expected a heart on the inside of the wrist, perhaps, or the word ‘acceptance’ on the ankle. Maybe something in Sanskrit behind the ear. She had not expected full black-and-white sleeves on both arms.

‘How long was she in hospital for?’

‘What?’

‘Your grandmother. I can’t tell if I’m looking at a hospital or a hospice or both.’

‘I don’t… I think it was… a bit of both. I don’t remember. How did you—’

‘We can’t look at the future until we’ve respected the past,’ Tamsin said briskly. Her eyes were open now, and she sat back down. Natalie followed suit, feeling slightly dizzy.

‘I didn’t put that on the form.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to. It was twenty years ago. The same year you broke your… wrist?’

‘Elbow.’ Natalie winced at the memory. ‘That’s when I had to stop gymnastics.’

‘Hm. Now, when was it you realised your parents had separated?’

Natalie felt dizzy again. Had Tamsin researched her? None of the reviews mentioned anything quite so personal. ‘Um, I was twenty-three. No, younger. I’d not long stopped university. They came separately to my sister’s engagement party.’

‘And the person who threw the glass was…’

‘My sister, the night before her wedding. When they finally admitted they’d been seeing other people since we were children.’

This was not the analytical goal-setting experience Natalie signed up for. She sipped water for something to do with her hands.

‘I hope you don’t think this is too forward,’ Tamsin said, more gently. She was reaching into her pocket for something. ‘You did book a wellness session.’

‘I was expecting a conversation about career aims and sleeping patterns. I thought you might recommend me a nutritionist.’

‘Yes, some of my colleagues do do that. I follow a more holistic school of thought.’

‘Does that mean there’s an organisation of wellness coaches who are… who are…’ She couldn’t say _psychic_. She just couldn’t. Besides, the thought of a network of Tamsins, all pulling memories from the heads of unsuspecting clients, made Natalie feel slightly ill. She realised Tamsin was holding a deck of cards. ‘Who are _intuitive_ ,’ she finished.

If Tamsin picked up on Natalie’s hesitation, she didn’t show it. ‘There are several practitioners in the wellness industry, yes. Not all, though: one of my colleagues runs an antiques shop and another an ice cream parlour. Now, this last couple of years. I’m seeing two—three—job changes and a house move? No, two house moves and a job change.’

‘I was made redundant during the pandemic and decided to retrain at the local college. I work nights in a care home.’

‘Mm.’ Tamsin was shuffling the cards, and Natalie realised they were a tarot deck. ‘How is college going?’

‘I’m failing all but one of my modules and I can’t afford to switch courses and try something new next year.’

‘Your degree, though. Art history. You can do a lot with that.’

‘Not in a post-Covid world, I can’t. Not when I didn’t finish the last year. Not without lots of unpaid internships and extra courses and time I don’t really have. I’m doing an accountancy course now. Everyone needs an accountant.’

‘Or a hairdresser,’ Tamsin said mildly. ‘Or an undertaker.’

Natalie wondered what Tamsin was getting at. ‘I suppose.’

‘But you’ve found that accountancy isn’t for you.’

Natalie realised it wasn’t a question. ‘No. But—I’m out of time to find out what is.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I’m twenty-six and share a flat with four other people. My mum has to help me out with my bills. There aren’t any other options. Not without—without… changing everything.’

‘Is that something you feel certain of?’ Tamsin asked lightly. ‘That you would have to upend your entire life to get to where you want to be, and that doing so isn’t an option?’

‘Of course.’ But as she said it, Natalie felt herself hesitate.

Tamsin finished shuffling her cards and handed them to Natalie. ‘We’re doing a short reading, today. I don’t think you need any complication. Do a little shuffle yourself. Pick, ah, three.’

‘What will they do?’

‘I’m hoping they give you some direction.’ Tamsin smiled again. Despite herself, Natalie found herself smiling back, just a tiny bit. ‘Let’s see if we can’t put you on the path to new trainers.’

‘Before we start—’ Natalie wasn’t sure why she was stalling, why doubt sloshed around her stomach. ‘How difficult is this path going to be? How—’ she searched for words. Tamsin waited patiently. ‘How hard is it going to be to get to where I want to go?’

‘Well, that’s a difficult question,’ Tamsin replied. ‘Where we want to go may not be where we need to go, as you’ll doubtless have read on a number of wooden placards. And of course, what we want changes over time.’

‘Not for me,’ Natalie burst out. ‘I _know_ where I want to be.’ Tamsin didn’t say anything, so Natalie continued. ‘I want a job I enjoy going to and I want to be able to afford to live somewhere with a garden. That’s it. Maybe some nice holidays. I just—I just don’t know how to get there from here.’

Tamsin’s smile grew. ‘It’ll be easier to focus after the reading, of course, but my instincts are that you’ve not found yourself on the wrong path so much as an adjacent one.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s not _bad_. I can’t promise that you’re going to have an easier time of things while you forge your way forward. But I don’t think it’s likely to be any harder than anything you’ve already lived through.’

Natalie thought of the texts on her phone. She thought of the shopping list in her purse. ‘All right, then. Let’s do this.’

** Five years later **

Martin didn’t know what to expect when he booked a session at the Eupraxia Centre. He was no longer sure what to expect from the people he loved most, nor from his own thoughts, so he was less surprised than some might be when he walked into the therapy centre, inhaled its clean, cream scent and realised that almost everyone who worked there was as magical as a five-year old’s trip to Disneyland.

So he just waited for the therapist to greet him, wondering how hard it was to clean dirt off the rug in reception.

‘Mr Atwood? Welcome to Eupraxia. My name is Natalie, I’ll be your therapist today. How are you?’

Martin found himself shaking Natalie’s hand, dazzled by a dainty smile and faint scent of lavender. As she released his hand, he noticed spidery, rune-like tattoos peeking from her cotton sleeve and wrapping themselves around her knuckles. When she turned to lead him down the corridor, another set of runes greeted him from the back of her neck.

When they were seated, Martin asked, ‘So which type of magic is it that you do here?’

Natalie raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re very perceptive. We dabble in a little bit of a lot of things. My boss, Tamsin, would say we use whatever you need.’

‘What would you say?’

‘I’d say that you, Mr Atwood, look in dire need of a detailed card reading and possibly some art therapy.’

‘Art therapy?’

‘Not quite in the realms of magic, I’m afraid, that, unless you make it so yourself. Now, let’s begin. How have you been feeling lately?’

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoying these stories? Please let me know in a comment and find other stories about magic and weirdos at my profile Thank you for reading!


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